


An Opus Alchymicum Vol 1: The Experimental Theologian's Apprentice

by Th3Alchemist



Series: An Opus Alchymicum [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Book: The Golden Compass, Canon Rewrite, Crossover, Dust (His Dark Materials), F/M, Gen, Harmione, Harmony - Freeform, Hermione has a Daemon, His Dark Materials Inspired, Jily lives, Lyra's World (His Dark Materials), Not Canon Compliant - His Dark Materials, Original Universe, Post-His Dark Materials, Pre-Hogwarts, Spoilers for Book 2: The Subtle Knife, Spoilers for Book 3: The Amber Spyglass, amber spyglass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:13:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 64,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25021474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Th3Alchemist/pseuds/Th3Alchemist
Summary: Harry Potter is a hero in danger - but his heroine is coming. With her animal dæmon for company, Hermione Granger will cross worlds to reach the boy she is fated to love, bringing the power of Dust, Lyra and armoured bears. With his parents alive, and Sirius as guardian, follow as Harry begins his path to Hogwarts, Hermione and the Fate that Dust has chosen for them both.This is a His Dark Materials/Harry Potter Crossover fic. Hope you enjoy!
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Original Female Character(s)
Series: An Opus Alchymicum [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818550
Comments: 31
Kudos: 73





	1. Welcome to AOA

** **

**Author's Note: **Hey fans, lovers and not-so-muchers! I've added this blurb to the beginning of the story to give some explaining info on the fic. So...

Welcome to Volume 1 of _An Opus Alchymicum!_

This first instalment of what I intend to be a complete HP series rewrite is also a crossover fic, a blend of _Harry Potter_ with elements of Philip Pullman's _His Dark Materials_ woven in. I was dubious about posting here but, as Kryten always said: "if you don't gosub a program loop, you'll never get a subroutine." So here goes.

The premise is fairly straightforward. Set in the year before the events of _Philosopher's Stone_ \- and vaguely at a point in time after the events of _The Secret Commonwealth_ in the HDM world - Hermione Granger is approached by Lyra Belacqua/Silvertongue to become her Apprentice. Then they embark on a journey to rescue Harry Potter, who Hermione is told she will fall in love with in the future, but is currently in danger for his life. In Harry's Alternate World, his parents escaped the threat of Voldemort - with the help of Sirius - to a clandestine, subterranean area of Muggle society, where they assist Muggles in their studies of magic, in exchange for protection and anonymity. But when Harry's developing magic threatens to expose him, James and Lily concoct a plan to smuggle him to the surface, where he can be prepared by Sirius and Minerva McGonagall to rejoin the magical community, which he has been totally ignorant of up to this point.

It will, of course, be a tooth-rottingly sweet Harmony story at some point down the line!

For those dubious about giving a crossover a try, let me first say that this series will be 75% Potter-centric. It is also fairly light and fluffy for the most part, though later instalments may need a slightly higher rating in line with how the _Potter_ series developed. For those unfamiliar with _His Dark Materials,_ here are the key story-world elements you need to know to get started.

 **Dæmon:** An aspect of the human soul external to the body, but only able to move short distances away before causing terrible pain to both. Animal-formed and able to interact with others, to touch the dæmon of another person is a strict social taboo and can be a huge personal violation.

 **Alethiometer: **A truth telling symbol reader, powered by Dust.

 **Dust _: _**A mysterious substance or conscious energy that pervades all things in the universe.

 **The Magisterium** : A powerful, repressive, church-like political body.

And that's it really. Everything else gets explained as we go. I really hope you give this a chance, as I'm rather pleased with how it's going (onto Vol 3 at time of updating) and I think it's a fun little ride so far. Comments and reviews are always welcome, or you may find me lurking in the HMS Harmony Discord Server for a more active interaction.

Thank you.


	2. A Fresh Start

**__ **

**_An Opus Alchymicum Volume 1:_ **

**_The Experimental Theologian's Apprentice_ **

**_Chapter 1: A Fresh Start_ **

**_*This story begins in a world quite like our own, but different in many ways*_ **

Hermione Granger and her dæmon, Papageno, sat quietly in the flower garden outside the Bodleian Library, careful to stay out of sight near the hydrangeas on that side. The large ornate fountain at the centre of the botanical quad provided good cover from inquisitive eyes, and the plants here were wild and natural, unlike the cultivated flora nearer to the library building itself. The splash of the water was also useful for muffling Hermione's soft weeping, as she sat cross-legged under the shade of an ancient oak and felt thoroughly sorry for herself.

"You shouldn't let those girls get to you," her dæmon soothed. "They just want to see you upset."

"Well it's working!" Hermione groaned, dabbing at her eyes.

"All I'm saying is that you shouldn't give them the satisfaction," Papageno went on. "They're just jealous, that's all. They aren't half as clever as you and it bothers them. All that extra tuition that their parents spend out on them and it's still _you_ , little Hermione Granger, a _townie_ , that beats them in every test and tops every class."

Hermione smiled weakly as her dæmon nudged her besocked feet with his little head. He was otter-formed just now, and gambolled around her in a little circle a while, tickling the exposed skin of her knees with his fur, before leaping over to frolic in the fountain water. Hermione laughed at his playfulness, as he splashed around and chased imaginary fish. Her mood lightened as she watched him.

"Thank you, Pap. You always cheer me up."

"I'd prefer not to have to," he replied in a fraught tone. "I'd rather you not be upset to start with."

"Oh, you know what I get like!" she exclaimed, huffing at herself. "You're right. I shouldn't let them upset me. But I try so hard ... and it hurts when they make fun of me."

"Are people making fun of you, young lady? You should report that to your mentor. Bullying is not tolerated at Jericho Prep."

Hermione snapped her head up, then immediately turned her eyes down and bowed her head as she saw who had addressed her.

"Professor Silvertongue! I was ... I was just ... er, oh -"

"You were just crying because someone made fun of you," Professor Silvertongue replied, kindly. Her dæmon, a rather large pine-marten, trotted up to Papageno and touched noses politely. "This is Pan. What's _his_ name?"

A slight nod towards Hermione's dæmon directed Professor Silvertongue's enquiry.

"Pap ... Papageno," Hermione mumbled. She still hadn't looked up, and was desperate to dry her eyes. Professor Silvertongue was a visiting scholar from Jordan College, and a favourite amongst the girls of Jericho Preparatory Academy. It just wouldn't do to look so weedy and pathetic in front of a woman who was famous for being so strong.

"Has he settled yet?"

"No, not yet," Hermione replied. "But he _seems_ to prefer being an otter, so I think he might choose that for his permanent form."

"And what about you?" asked the Professor, mimicking Hermione's cross-legged pose in front of the bushes. "Where do _you_ think you will permanently be? I assume that's why you are here, for the Open Day."

Hermione nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Trinity and Magdalen have made approaches to my parents. But the fees are quite high, I'm not sure we could manage them."

Hermione blushed deeply and ducked her head in embarrassment, which caused the Professor to frown in pity.

"What do your parents do?"

"They run a small dental practice not far along the canal, near Abingdon," Hermione explained. "It's only a family surgery, mostly Domestic Health Service patients. I only got into Jericho by way of a scholarship ... my academic scores are quite high, you see."

Hermione blushed further at her own achievements. Even Papageno buried his head between his paws in nervous reticence, causing Pantalaimon to whisper encouragingly in his ear.

"Yes, I've heard," Professor Silvertongue smiled.

That caused Hermione to look up. "You have?"

"Of course," the Professor continued. "As the _only_ female scholar at Jordan I take a keen interest in high performing young ladies from around the feeder schools. And your name keeps coming across my desk and my attention ... _Miss Granger_."

Hermione didn't know where to look. The famous and much-loved Lyra Silvertongue _knew_ about _her_. That was the most bizarre of pieces of news for Hermione to come across. For some reason, though, she felt as if she were being reprimanded.

"I'm sorry," she muttered mutely. "I don't mean to be any trouble."

Lyra laughed at that. "You _are_ a meek little thing, aren't you? Tell me, Miss Granger, what causes this nervousness in you? You are a bright, intelligent girl, in a Mecca of learning. What is it that makes you uncomfortable?"

"I suppose I don't feel like I belong," Hermione mumbled, shifting awkwardly to curl her legs to a better sitting position. "Being a townie, and everything."

"You mean, the spoilt little rich girls you study with make you feel that you don't belong," Lyra quirked sagely. "Are they the ones who upset you?"

Hermione turned away again, fighting a new surge of tears behind her eyes, but she still managed a polite little nod of confirmation.

"And what did they say?"

"They make fun of me because I have so much _hair_ ," Hermione blurted out, fluffing her hands through her thick tresses. "And because my front teeth are so big. They say it's a good job I love books so much because no _boy_ will ever fancy me or love me, because I'm so ugly."

Tears came against Hermione's will and she sniffed hard as they fell. Professor Silvertongue would see, and judge her for her pathetic-ness, so why bother pretending?

But then she felt Pantalaimon rubbing his head against Pap's shoulder in a comforting fashion, which caused Hermione to look up.

And she didn't find Professor Silvertongue admonishing her, or tutting at her. Instead, she found kind, sympathetic eyes fixed gently on her face. She had a very pretty smile and Hermione was warmed to see it directed at her.

"Do _you_ think you'll ever fall in love?" the Professor asked.

Hermione hauled in her breath. This was a fear she carried, one she'd never shared before. But Lyra Silvertongue just had a way of earning one's trust.

"I ... I don't know," Hermione snivelled. "Boys _don't_ tend to talk to me. But then, _nobody_ really does. I can be quite bossy, you see. I don't _mean_ to be, but it just happens and people think I'm _being_ mean. But I'm not. And I _am_ ugly, the girls are right about that. What boy would want _me_ as a girlfriend?"

Lyra chuckled at that. "Firstly, you are _not_ ugly, and don't let any silly girl - or boy - tell you otherwise. Secondly, aren't you a bit young to be thinking about boyfriends? What are you ... ten? Eleven?"

"I turn eleven in September," Hermione clarified.

"There we go, _far_ too young. You need to enjoy being a child before you start thinking about the messy business of _relationships_."

"Clara Fortescue has a boyfriend," Hermione mumbled.

"Is that someone in your class?" asked Lyra. Hermione nodded. "And are you jealous of Clara?"

"Oh no!" Hermione scoffed. "Her boyfriend is Tobias Woodforde, a nasty, freckled little thing."

"There we go then!" Lyra laughed. "Who would _want_ a boyfriend if that's the type on offer?"

Hermione smiled cheekily and felt a lot better. "Thank you, Professor."

"Don't mention it. However, if you really want to know if you'll fall in love, we could always ask my alethiometer."

Hermione's eyes went round. She had heard of the mysterious truth-telling symbol readers, but she was half-convinced they were just a myth.

"Do you _have_ one?" she whispered. "I thought the Magisterium confiscated them all?"

"I will tell you a secret, but only if you agree to do something for me in return," Lyra replied, her grey eyes sparkling with meaning.

"What is it?" asked Hermione eagerly. She, like many others before her, had fallen under Lyra's sway. She was totally in her power.

"The Magisterium and I have a, well, _c_ _omplex_ relationship," Lyra continued. "The secret I carry could land you in trouble with the Consistorial Court of Discipline, or a dozen other bodies. But I have to pass it on to _someone_ , and I've been considering _you_ for a while."

Hermione was beyond flattered. But the light of adventure had sparked within her too.

"Why me?"

"You are bright and intelligent as I said earlier," Lyra explained. "Someone who would appreciate the mystery and magnificence of all I have learned. Knowledge I am eager to pass on. Hermione, you could be my apprentice you know - I need one."

Hermione gasped aloud. "An _apprentice_ ... to you?"

"Would you like that?"

"Oh _yes!"_ Hermione cried, leaping to her knees. "I would like that very much indeed!"

"And do you know anything about Experimental Theology?" asked Lyra. "That is my field of study, after all."

"I know it concerns elementary particles, and the Rusakov Field, and the work of Barnard-Stokes, and Stanislaus Grumman, and I think it might have something to do with the movement of the planets, and maybe magic - but I'm not sure about that- ... oh, and it's all about Dust, of course."

Hermione said all this very fast and very enthusiastically. Lyra smiled at her.

" _Of course_?" she repeated. "And what do you know about Dust?"

Hermione blushed. "Mostly what you wrote in _your_ books and treaties on the subject, ma'am."

"If you are to be my apprentice, Hermione, I must insist that you call me _Lyra_."

"But that wouldn't be proper," Hermione frowned. "You will be my mentor, I your student. Can I please call you ' _ma'am'?"_

"That makes me feel very old," Lyra grinned.

"How about ' _Miss',_ then? I ... I don't think you're married, are you?"

Hermione blushed nervously again. It was a question to test boundaries, but Lyra simply smiled at her.

"No, I am not married. Very well, 'Miss' will just have to do."

"Okay," Hermione grinned. "My parents will be ever so proud when I tell them."

"Now, first thing," Lyra began seriously. "As my apprentice, much that we do will have to be kept secret. Even from your parents. It is safer that way, unlikely to draw the attention of the CCD onto your family."

Hermione gulped hard. "I can keep secrets. But what was the one you were going to tell me ... about your alethiometer?"

"Merely _that_ ," Lyra replied. "That I still _have_ one. It's mine, I've carried it with me since I was a girl of your age. I have no intention of giving it up to the Magisterium, or anyone else who might come looking for it."

"And can you read it?" asked Hermione, shivering at the sudden hint of danger Lyra was alluding to. "Do you have the books?"

"I have learned to read it _without_ the books," Lyra returned with a triumphant grin. "That is secret number _two_."

"Wow!" Hermione breathed. "Can ... can I _see_ it?"

"That will be your third secret of the day," Lyra admonished falsely. She waited for that adorable flush to return to Hermione's cheeks before continuing. "But I'll permit it. Come along, my office is not far from here. I will allow you to ask one question of my alethiometer, then I will return you to the dorm-house at Jericho."

Hermione was on her feet in a flash, hurrying to keep pace with Lyra's long strides. Pap and Pan trotted along behind, chattering quietly as they followed their humans across the garden, through the gatehouse of Jordan college, where Lyra cheerily saluted the Porter, then up the narrow staircase of the new Asriel Tower to Lyra's little round office.

"It isn't much," she observed as Hermione closed the door. "But it's all mine. Now, take a seat at the desk."

Hermione did as she was told. Lyra then busied herself out of Hermione's sight, entering the correct code to the safe in the corner of the office. The heavy door clicked open and Lyra withdrew a small mahogany box, which she placed next to Hermione on the desk. Lyra flicked the catch, then carefully lifted out the alethiometer, which she unfolded from inside a fine velvet cloth.

"Wow ... it's _beautiful!"_ Hermione gushed. "I never expected it to be so pretty."

"You can hold it if you like?"

"Can I?" Hermione whispered, taking the object with reverent, trembling fingers as Lyra offered it to her. It was heavier than she imagined, and humming with a sort of low-level energy that Hermione found almost intoxicating as it flowed around her fingers.

"Now, what question would you like to ask?" Lyra queried, taking the alethiometer and setting it down in front of her.

Hermione didn't even need to think. "Will ... will I fall in love?"

"Okay," Lyra smiled softly. "Let's ask."

She busied herself with the dials at the sides of the alethiometer, spinning them with practised ease to move the hands to the correct positions. Then she closed her eyes, brought her breathing into a slow, steady rhythm, and framed the question in her mind. Hermione watched in drunken fascination as the needle swung round and around, stopping at this symbol then that one, making no sense to her, but hypnotising her as she tried to divine some sort of meaning from it.

 _She_ may not have understood what the symbol reader was trying to communicate, but Lyra was a far more experienced hand at this. She swallowed each meaning, followed each link as it passed through her mind. But the final message was very confusing.

She opened her eyes slowly.

"Well?" Hermione asked eagerly. "What did it say? Will I fall in love?"

Hermione was looking so earnestly that Lyra had to be truthful, even if the truth was disconcerting to the point of frightening.

"Yes, Hermione, the alethiometer says you will."

And with that, Hermione Granger erupted in a shock of tears. She buried her face in the crook of her arms and leaned on the desk. Lyra stood and moved to her new apprentice, rubbing her consolingly on her shoulders.

"There, there, don't cry. This is good news, isn't it?"

"Oh yes," Hermione looked up, smiling through her tears. "It's the _best_. I'm just so _happy_. Did it say when?"

Lyra chuckled. "No, the alethiometer doesn't give out details like that. But, it did give me some very unusual information, and I'm not sure what to make of it."

"Like what?" Hermione pushed, drying her eyes.

"It says you will fall in love, but that the boy you love is from _a different world_."

"A different world?" Hermione parroted. For some reason, the tone of Lyra's voice suggested she didn't mean a different sphere of society or social class ... but an _actual_ different world. The kind that Lyra, herself, was rumoured to have visited in her past.

"Yes, and not only that, it says that he is in grave danger," Lyra went on. "And there was something infinitely more confusing, regarding magic and his being a blacksmith, or maybe even a _potter._ Some sort of master of fire. I don't really understand that."

"But he's in danger?" Hermione urged, a desperate imperative rising in her chest, to rescue this unknown boy that she had already fallen for, sight unseen. "What kind of danger?"

"Someone's out to kill him."

Hermione gasped in horror. "Then we have to help him. We must! I don't know how but, Professor ... Miss Lyra ... you _must_ know a way. If anyone does, it's _you_. I cant let him be killed, I just _cant!_ "

Hermione was so firm, so fierce, that Lyra was reminded of her younger self a moment. It ignited the spirit of adventure in her, this restless sense that always flowed just beneath her surface. She turned her sparkling eyes to her new apprentice.

"Okay, Hermione, let me make some enquiries to my friends at Oakley Street. They owe me a few favours. Let's see if we cant help this _Mr Potter_ of yours."


	3. The Inverted Pyramid

*** _This chapter of our story takes place in our world, but as we know, this world has many secrets too.*_**

Harry Potter followed his mother quickly through the dim circles of flickering amber, cast from the rough brackets set high on the walls of dark, jagged stone. The lights here were not powerful neon globes, like in the rest of the underground city, but flaming sconces that crackled and spat as they passed. It gave a shuddering sense of _other-worldliness_ that Harry found incredibly exciting.

He just couldn't _wait_ to see where his mother was taking him.

"Now, Harry," she reaffirmed as they walked. "What I'm about to show you is a secret. You cant tell it to _anyone_ , do you understand?"

"Not even to Dad?"

"Of course you can tell your Dad," Lily quirked. "He would be here too, if he could, but he's busy."

"Where is he?" Harry asked.

"He's visiting a school on the surface," Lily replied, walking swiftly on. "It's a very _special_ school, and one we really think _you_ ought to attend."

"Me?" Harry blurted out. A school _on_ _the surface_? Harry shuddered at the very notion. His excitement transformed to cold fear in an instant. "But, Mum," he protested. "I don't _want_ to go. I want to stay here with you. Don't make me go ... please."

His last word was delivered in near-whisper, but it made little dent in Lily's determination as she stopped and rounded on her son. When she spoke her tone was kind, but also firm and decisive. Harry knew it would be foolish to argue.

"Harry ... my beautiful boy," she began. She reached out and cupped his cheek. "I didn't want to have to tell you this, but it may not be safe for you down here much longer. That's why we have to send you away."

"But _why_?" Harry moaned desperately.

Lily sighed. "Harry, these odd things that have been happening to you ... we've been expecting them. But, if anyone finds out ... they'll take you away ... and I don't know _what_ will happen to you then. I don't even want to think about it!"

Lily suddenly snatched her arms around Harry, squeezing the breath out of him. Harry didn't even have to think about what his mother meant. When the scientists had shaved his head to perform tests on his hair, he'd felt thoroughly miserable about being practically bald. But, somehow, his messy locks had grown back overnight. Then, when they tried to force a restraining jacket on him to take a blood sample, it shrank so much that it might have fitted a glove-puppet when it was done, but it was certainly not going to fit Harry, despite how skinny he was. Harry was desperate to explain that he _couldn't_ explain how these things had happened. But nobody seemed to want to listen to him.

Now, if his mother was to be believed, this meant something _dangerous._ Harry shuddered as this new understanding settled on him.

"So, where are we going?" Harry asked, as his mother took off at a brisk pace once more. "And what sort of school is on the surface? You told me they were all savages who lived up there. How can they have a school?"

"We only told you that so you wouldn't ask questions," Lily replied guiltily. "Try not to be too angry at us, Harry. We only did what we thought was best."

"But why?" Harry pushed.

"Because ... _you're a wizard_ , _Harry!"_

Harry stopped dead with the shock. "I'm a ... _what_?"

"A wizard," Lily repeated. "Just like your _father and mother_ before you."

"Can you say that _again_?" Harry breathed. "Only it _sounded_ like you said that you and Dad are ... are _wizards!_ "

"Well, technically, I'm a _witch_ ," Lily replied. "But it's the same thing. We can cast spells, fly broomsticks and brew potions, that sort of thing. We attended a school for Witchcraft and Wizardry, that's where we learned it all."

"But, Mum," Harry complained. "That sounds like _the occult_. And you know that -"

"Yes, the occult is illegal in the New Order," Lily cut across brusquely. "That's why your father and I have kept it a secret all these years. But now, you're coming of age and starting to show signs ... and we cant protect you from these _accidents_ you keep having. We have to send you to our old school ... to Hogwarts. Seven years there and you wont know yourself."

"Seven years?" Harry whined. "No, Mum, don't say that!"

"Hey, don't be afraid," Lily soothed kindly. She leant over and kissed Harry's head. "We'll see you every Christmas and Summer. We'll just tell everyone that you are going to Eton or somewhere. Your father is on the surface now, arranging the cover story with the headmaster of Hogwarts. Being down here, see, they wouldn't know about you. You wouldn't get an invite, but your Dad will sort it. You'll see."

"But Mum, I don't understand any of this. I thought we'd always lived underground. Now you're saying that's wrong?"

"Yes, Harry. I am."

"But why did you come down here in the first place then? You said the world up there is full of dangers."

"And it is," Lily confirmed. "We pretended we'd been killed, but that was just an excuse to escape, during a war that was going on when you were just a baby. There was a wizard, you see, who went _bad_. As bad as you can go. And he got it into his head that _you_ were a threat to him."

"Me?" Harry muttered, a thrill of cold terror prickling along his spine. "How could I be a threat? I don't know any ... m-magic ... or anything like that."

"I know, but there was a prophecy made about you," Lily went on. "It said that you had a sort of power that would defeat this _Dark Lord_. So he wanted to get you out of the way first. But, before he could, we staged our death with the help of your Dad's best mate, Sirius Black. He pretended to blow us up in the street, as he faked being on the side of the Dark Lord. In the melee, your father and I escaped with you to here, where we'd be safe."

Harry gasped out loud. "And what happened to this _Sirius_?"

"They threw him into wizard prison," Lily revealed. "But he escaped. He is the only person ever to manage it. When you are safely at Hogwarts, he will contact you. You can trust him."

"But how will _I_ be safe!" Harry cried. "You said this Dark Wizard wants to kill me!"

"Lord Voldemort is long dead, Harry," Lily answered. "Sirius and the Hogwarts Headmaster took care of him years ago. Even to this day we don't know how. All we _do_ know is that, if you stay down here with us, the Muggles - that's non-magic folk - will go as far as to _hurt you_ to find out your secrets. I cant let that happen to my beautiful boy ... I _wont_."

"I don't want to go, Mum!" Harry squealed. "Please don't make me!"

"Don't you want to learn magic? I would have thought, considering all those comics you read, that you'd jump at the chance."

"I _would_ have," Harry replied honestly. "But not without _you_. I love you, Mum. I don't want to go away."

"I love you, too, sweetheart," Lily cooed, hugging Harry tenderly close. "That's why we have to get you safe."

"But cant you come? Why do you have to stay?"

"Harry, this is one of the most secretive Government facilities in the country," Lily clarified. "Where the highest classified black project research takes place. You don't just _leave_ if you decide you've had enough. You commit to this for _life_. But you, you're just a boy. And there are programmes at Eton that are tied-in to what we do here. Sending you there wont raise suspicions."

"And what happens when I don't turn up?" Harry pointed out fairly.

"Oh, Harry Potter, _will_ enrol at Eton, it just won't be _you_. Don't ask questions, Harry. Just trust us. We'll take care of everything."

"Yeah, except for _me_ ," Harry spat, bitterly.

Lily frowned at her son. "Do you have a better idea? This is the only way to keep you safe from the Muggles."

Harry railed against the misery of the situation, but he couldn't think of an alternative. He turned to his mother. "Will I still be able to contact you?"

"We'll find a way," Lily promised faithfully.

"And I'll see you at Christmas and Summer?"

Lily nodded.

"And this Sirius character will help me, too?"

"If he doesn't, he'll have me to answer to!" Lily grinned.

"And I get to learn _magic_?"

For the first time, the spark of adventure flickered in Harry's chest. Lily smiled broadly as she saw it move up and cross his eyes.

"Lots and lots of it," she confirmed.

Harry took a steadying breath. "Okay. I'll do it. When do I go?"

"Soon," Lily replied. "But first, I want to test your skill."

"How?"

"By seeing how you respond to _this_."

They had reached a wall at the end of the corridor without Harry noticing it. His mouth fell open in shock, as his mother whipped out a small knife from her pocket, pricked her finger, and ran the blood along a shallow groove in the rock face. The rock melted away with a fizz and a pop and Harry found himself looking at the most astonishing sight he'd ever laid eyes on.

For he was looking at a huge, brilliantly white _pyramid_ , buried deep underground, taking up most of the space of a huge chasm in the earth that it had been built within. Harry had no words with which to describe it. But one aspect struck him straight away, something that made him think immediately of magic.

For the pyramid was _upside down_ , with the apex lost deep under the dark, still waters of an enormous black lake.

"What is _that?"_ he managed to puff out.

"We call it _The Inverted Pyramid_ ," Lily replied, proudly. "Your father and I found it five years ago, and I've been studying it ever since. It is _dripping_ in magic, but so far we've been able to keep that from the Muggles. We think it connects to deep reserves of natural magical energy that flow around the earth. If it does, and _you_ are magical, you should be able to produce a magical response if you stand in the field it creates."

"I don't get it."

"Try to understand - and don't hold this against us later - but your father and I have survived by helping the Muggles develop ways to control magic, to incorporate it into their technology and, in some cases, _suppress_ it," Lily muttered guiltily. "They only use it on the people who work down here in _Annwn_ , but we suspect they want to use it on the surface world in the future. So we do all we can to delay the research.

"The _Rusakov Field_ is the name they give to energy waves that they send out of the giant Tesla coils dotted around Annwn. It stops people down here developing any sort of magical skill. Your father and I were _already_ magical, so we aren't affected, and then _you_ were born.

"We weren't sure how it would impact you, seeing as you were born on the surface. And the Muggles let you stay with us because we said you were part of the research and experiment. So, as long as you didn't show any signs of magic, we could say the suppression was working, and they wouldn't take you away."

"But I've been having these _accidents_?"

"Exactly," Lily agreed. " _Despite_ living under the Rusakov Field. And they will only get worse. Your magical potential is just too _strong_ , Harry. You aren't like other children, even magical ones. You have a uniquely dense adroitness to magic. It isn't safe for you here, so Hogwarts is really the only option."

"And the pyramid?"

"It produces a natural field of magic," Lily explained. "If you step inside, it will instantly remove the Rusakov Restriction. Stand over there, inside that purple line."

Lily pointed to a painted ring on the marble-tiled floor. Harry moved into it ... and immediately felt ... _something._ He couldn't have said what it was, beyond a warmth that raced up from his toes to his hair, leaving him giddy and heady a moment as the sensation swept over him.

Lily moved close and motioned to a table nearby. On it, a single sheet of emerald-green glass lay silent and waiting. Lily nodded to it, and Harry picked it up, carefully tracking his fingers along its indented edges.

"What is it?" Harry asked. He could feel a low hum of energy coursing through the glass, warming his trembling fingers where he held it up. He turned it delicately, examined how it caught and diffracted the light at different angles, light which came from _somewhere_ high up in the chamber, from a source Harry couldn't make out.

"It is a very special artefact," Lily answered. "To those with the skill to use it, it can answer any question you could possibly think to ask it."

"Wow!" Harry breathed. He thought of a question - _what's going to happen to me?_ \- and immediately the top level of the sheet of glass swirled and danced and melted, and eventually congealed into strange symbols and markings. Harry couldn't make them out at all, but he could sense a _sort of_ meaning, hidden deep beneath the bizarre swirls and ridges. It was tantalisingly frustrating, as though the answer was just there, maddeningly out of reach.

"What are you seeing?" Lily asked, curiously.

"Symbols, markings, I cant read them," Harry hushed back. "But it _means_ something ... I can _feel_ it ... what _is_ it?"

"They are called Runes," Lily explained. "And understanding them can take a lifetime, maybe more."

"Runes," Harry repeated reverently, running his fingertips along the diamond-smooth ridges of the symbols. "What do they mean?"

"They are the answer to your question."

Harry frowned. "What good is that, if I cant understand them?"

"If you want to read the runes, you will strive to learn how," Lily smiled cryptically. "Come on, I have my answer."

"But _I_ don't have _mine_!" Harry huffed. "What use is that?"

"All the use in the world," Lily quirked. "For now we know for sure."

"Know what?"

Lily grinned widely. "Harry, my son, don't you see? Only a true _wizard_ could see Runes in the Emerald Tablet. Come along, we have much to prepare you for, and so little time. Come on, and remember, don't mention this to anyone. Your very _life_ depends on it."


	4. A Whisper of the North

Hermione looked away shyly. It seemed indecent to watch, even though she was deeply curious to see what happened.

For she had never seen the dæmons of two strangers _embrace_ before.

But that's just what those of Alice Lonsdale and Malcolm Polstead, two close friends of Lyra's, were doing. Clearly, they weren't _strangers_ at all. Hermione peeked at their dæmons intently as they met - hers a dog, his a cat - as they started rolling around together and clawing playfully at each other, undoubted intimacy between them. Hermione watched as though intruding on the forbidden, as if she'd just stumbled upon the humans, themselves, locked in a passionate clinch.

It felt very much the same.

"This is Hermione Granger, my new _apprentice_ ," Lyra was saying, which jerked Hermione back to her senses.

She bowed politely as Alice and Malcolm turned their eyes to study her, their dæmons pausing in their revelry to sniff curiously at Papageno when he ventured bravely from behind Hermione's legs. Or, at least, when his _head_ did. Satisfied, they went back to their indecent cavorting like nobody's business, causing Hermione to blush at the sight of them.

"And which school do you attend, dear?" asked Alice.

"Jericho Prep," Hermione mumbled, wringing her hands nervously.

"The girls' side, of course," Alice frowned. She turned to Lyra. "I've always said Jordan should have an under college and invite girls to attend. It would stop all this non-mixing nonsense."

"Perhaps now isn't the time to debate the gender inequality in our elite education system," Malcolm proffered. He had the look of a scholar, but the air of a man who knew his way around in the world, and the build of someone who could handle himself in a struggle. Hermione was a little bit afraid of him.

"No, it isn't," Lyra agreed. "We have a problem. A very _unique_ problem."

"An Oakley Street problem, you said," Malcolm frowned. "How can this little girl have any need of _us_?"

The way he said ' _us'_ made Hermione think there were secret, hidden sides to everyone in the room. As though each had two faces, one which they showed to the world, and one which walked down this _Oakley Street_ , wherever that might be. Faces they could flip to at will. The notion made Hermione tremble in her patent-leather flats.

"The alethiometer has given us some curious information," Lyra began. "It seems Miss Granger here is destined to fall in love."

"Congratulations, dear," Alice teased, as Hermione blushed brilliantly. "Who's the lucky fella?"

"According to the alethiometer, a boy with someone out to kill him. A boy in _another world_."

Malcolm and Lyra exchanged dark, highly charged looks. Hermione felt it sweep over her like a searing heat.

"Oh, no, Lyra, don't even ask -"

"Too late," Lyra quirked. "I already _have!"_

"No matter, the answer is still _no."_

"I'm not asking for your _permission_ ," Lyra stabbed. "Just for your help. Or, failing that, a bit of practical advice. We're going either way."

"Going?" asked Hermione. "Going where?"

"To the North," Lyra replied simply. "The walls between the worlds are the thinnest up there, under the Northern Lights. Mal, here, knows all about that, after helping Oakley Street build a _portal_ between the worlds ... and then _not telling me_ about it."

Malcolm turned away guiltily, just as Alice's dæmon whacked his own across the ear.

"Ow! That was uncalled for!" he complained, rubbing his own ear in protest.

"Malcolm Polstead! What _have_ you been doing?" Alice demanded.

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" Lyra interjected quickly, her anger rising quicker still. "I am the _Head_ of Experimental Theology at Jordan, for crying out loud!"

"Who told you? Don't answer that. It was Charlotte Dubois, wasn't it? She always was one of your disciples."

"You leave Charlotte out of this!" Lyra hissed. "It doesn't matter who told me. I'd have found out eventually. It only matters that you _didn't_ tell me."

"It was a secret project," Malcolm returned evenly. "And it was most important to keep it secret from _you_."

"Me? Why?"

"How can you even ask that?" Malcolm cried out passionately. "Can you honestly tell me that, if you'd known what we were doing, you wouldn't have run straight through to find ... _him?"_

There was an acidity to his tone that took Hermione by surprise. She swallowed a dozen questions she might have asked about this, as Lyra began talking again.

"Is this the time? Really?" Lyra asked in a bored tone.

"There's _never_ been a time ..."

"No, and we've been over that many, _many_ times," Lyra retorted. "Just tell me why, Mal? I closed those windows for good ... and for good reason."

Malcolm rounded on her. "And you think the Magisterium would just accept that? There are a thousand other worlds out there, Lyra. Worlds to dominate and indoctrinate. Do you think, once they knew they existed, that they would be content to just leave them be? To leave them to their heresy?"

Hermione shivered in the slipstream of Lyra's silence. The suggestion was, frankly, terrifying.

"So ... _they_ opened the way to other worlds?" asked Lyra, quietly.

Malcolm nodded angrily. "In Geneva, and in Rome. They found the thesis of your father's work. It wasn't hard to recreate the effects in a controlled environment ... and no shortage of heretics and blasphemers to sacrifice in the name of The Almighty's _good work_."

Alice scoffed at that, and ground her thick nails into the kitchen table. Malcolm moved to stare out of the window, to master his surging rage by looking out across to the ruins of Godstow Priory on the other side of the canal. Even Lyra looked distressed, something Hermione had never expected to see in the exalted scholar.

"So, what do you intend to do?" Malcolm asked eventually.

"Head to Trollesund, and from there contact the witches of the Northern Clans," Lyra explained. "I'm counting on Serafina Pekkala for her counsel. _Someone_ has to be willing to help us."

Malcolm visibly bristled at the snipe, but held his tongue admirably.

Hermione, at this point, felt the need to interject. "You're going to so much trouble, Miss Lyra. Is there no easier way?"

Lyra smiled down at her. "Crossing the worlds is never easy. But an innocent boy's life is in the balance. And besides, the alethiometer left me in no doubt that this was important. If it wasn't, we wouldn't even be here. But there is something about this boy, and you, and your future. The fates, it would seem, are not done with me quite yet."

Malcolm sighed near the window. "Okay, Lyra. I'll help you. What do you need?"

"Your company and guidance?" Lyra asked hopefully. "Where we are going, I get the feeling it will be dangerous. I'd rather not go alone."

"One day, Lyra Silvertongue, I'll refuse you something," Malcolm quirked. "Damn you and that _silver tongue_."

Lyra grinned at him. "Thank you, Mal. Pack your thermals and furs, it gets cold under the Aurora."

"Who else will you ask?" Alice queried, looking pale as the plan unfolded. "I don't like the idea of you being so exposed."

"Oh we wont be," Lyra quipped confidently. "We are going to pay a visit to the _panserbjorne_. I have some pull ... with their _king_. Or, at least, I used to have ..."

"There is another visit we ought to pay first," Malcolm pointed out reasonably. Then, when Lyra cocked a confused look at him, he nodded down at Hermione. "Miss Granger's parents? I'm pretty sure they may need some convincing before we whisk her off to meet the Armoured Bears, Witches and who knows what else. They may stop her going altogether."

"I'm not worried, Dr Polstead," said Hermione briskly. "My mum always said I had witch-oil in my soul. If I'm going to meet some witches, maybe they'll make me into one. It will be like going home. Maybe there's a school out there somewhere, in one of these worlds, where they can teach me all about it ..."

Malcolm frowned, unconvinced by Hermione's assuredness. He turned to Lyra. "Can I have a word with you? In _private_?"

Lyra scrunched up her eyes, as was her way, but followed Malcolm out of the kitchen of _The Trout_ and into the beer garden overlooking the canal. He was pensive a moment, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts, as he watched a brightly-coloured gyptian narrow-boat float past on its way to the horse-fair at Jericho. Lyra watched it too, smiling inwardly at a flash of warm memories from her childhood that flooded into her brain.

Then Malcolm spoke. "Lyra, you shouldn't do this. It's incredibly reckless."

"I knew you'd try and talk me out of it," Lyra huffed crossly. "I don't know why I came here. But I _am_ doing it. The alethiometer says I must, and I've already made a commitment to young Hermione."

"Then break it," Malcolm retorted. "She'll get over it. She's young enough to fix her broken heart."

"Like _I was_ , you mean?" Lyra asked incredulously. "You claim to love _me_ , Mal, but sometimes I wonder if you truly know what real, heartfelt, soul deep love actually is."

Malcolm clenched his jaw at the rebuke. "All I'm saying, is that you know the risks, the dangers. To take them yourself is one thing, to draw this girl into them ... that's another thing entirely."

"Mal, she drew _me_ in," Lyra exclaimed. "And now she has, I have to see it through with her."

"You know the Magisterium watches you religiously," Malcolm reminded her. "You try and leave for the North and they'll be dogging you every step of the way. You'll need more than the bears to save you from them."

"I've outsmarted them before, I'll do it again. I practically do it for sport at this point."

"Lyra - you're not taking this seriously!"

"What are you - my _dæmon_ , now?" Lyra scythed. "Look, Mal, either come with us or don't. The decision is yours. But don't pester me if you decide to come. I have to help this girl do something important in another world, save a life and who knows what else along the way. My personal war with the Magisterium didn't end, Mal - it may _never_ end. Being in my life means _accepting_ that. The choice is yours. I give you a week to make it."


	5. The Flying Kipper

Harry stepped up onto the second rung of the security railing and reached out, stretching as far as his arms could go. Gripped firmly in his right hand was a crude sort of fishing net, which he proceeded to swipe and swing, taking great care not to topple over the edge. For it was a _long_ way down to the streets far below. Almost a thousand meters some guessed. It was a height almost impossible to believe, considering it had been hollowed out deep beneath the surface of the Earth, which was yet higher still.

Harry looked out at the huge towers _The Spike_ and _The Pickle_ , whimsically named after sister buildings in surface London, and fought a sickening bout of vertigo that threatened his balance. His goal was a special sort of moth which had evolved down here. They fluttered and snapped, thousands of them, around the hundreds of giant glass globes which made up the _Light Deck_ , and provided illumination to the city down below. The moths had found a way to absorb the light, and then change it to different colours as they tried to attract a mate. It was the prettiest thing, to watch all the reds and blues and golds flash and sparkle above him.

So Harry wanted to catch some, trap them in a jar, and give it to his mother as a going away present.

For he was now growing fitfully excited about his adventure to the world above. It had taken a couple of weeks to truly adjust, to learn to bear the secrets his parents had now begun to expose him to. But, once he had, the anticipation began to bite at him like a persistent midge. He was fascinated as his mother showed him her magic wand, and utterly astounded as she _demonstrated_ it, producing a pretty silver doe from its tip, which she called a _Patronus_.

But even that couldn't prepare him for his father's magical display. He left Harry completely speechless as he transformed himself into a powerful _stag_ , before chasing Harry playfully around the garden of their large estate, finally changing back and explaining to Harry that he was something called an _Animagus_. Harry had so much to learn, he knew, and the realisation vexed him greatly. It was a concern he expressed to his mother, as she was studying ore samples that the alchemists from the Institute of Precious Metals had sent over for analysis.

"I ... I bet I'll be the worst in the class," Harry mumbled. "I'll be so far behind everyone."

"No, you won't be," Lily replied supportively. "Lots of students who attend Hogwarts come from Muggle backgrounds. And even those of magical families don't have much of a headstart. If you just buckle down and study hard, you'll get along just fine."

"I don't think I'll ever be able to do the things you and Dad can," Harry grumbled. "Creating stars from your wand is all very well, but it seems a long way to go to be turning thimbles into tea cups."

Lily chuckled and flicked the magnifying lens from her eye. She beckoned Harry to stand in front of her, then took his shoulders firmly in her hands and smiled warmly at him. "Now, you listen to me, Harry Potter. You are a wizard, and a thumping good 'un, I reckon, once you get trained up a bit. Don't expect to learn everything straight away. Just take it one step at a time.

"I tell you what, next week your father has some work to do on the surface. We'll arrange for you to go, a sort of _Bring-Your-Child-To-Work_ day. Then, your Dad can take you to buy some spell books and things, to get you ready for Hogwarts. What do you say to that?"

Harry's eyes lit up with fervour. "Ooh, _can_ I?"

"Yes, sweetheart," Lily beamed. "We'll see if we cant give _you_ a headstart on all the others. But I expect you to learn all the books by heart if I let you go, and I'll test you on them to make sure. Deal?"

"Deal!" Harry cried. Then he frowned. "But, what about Dad? Wont he be seen?"

Lily's eyes twinkled. "Oh, don't you worry about _that_. Your Dad will have that little issue _covered_."

Harry had to wait twelve days for his mother to fulfil her promise. On Saturday, he was ready at five o'clock. There was mist and frost, droplets of it clung to the astroturf lawns and the wax resin trees, for it was impossible to grow real plants down here, so far away from the sunlight as they were. Nobody had yet been able to explain the frost, or the clouds which sometimes formed and wreathed the Light Deck in a dark, foreboding fog. There were even old stories that said there had been _lightening_ down here once, but nobody could remember if that was true or not.

Harry and his father, James, made their way through the deserted streets to the Central Underground Train Station. Quite why it was called an _underground_ station had always confused Harry, for _everything_ down here was underground. He supposed it was due to the connection to the famous Tube network of London, which linked up to Annwn roughly following the M4 motorway corridor, which ran along the surface high above.

At exactly seven minutes past five, a train sped into the station. This train didn't _usually_ carry passengers; it was a special train that brought cargo from several subterranean lakes that had been converted for fish farming. The railwaymen called it _The Flying Kipper_. Occasionally, however, _The Kipper_ would head to the surface to bring back special fish for a banquet or something, if important people were visiting Annwn.

It was also the easiest way to sneak hidden wizard boys to the surface without drawing any attention to them.

Harry and James waited in a storage depot as _The Kipper_ unloaded its cargo. When the coast was clear, the fireman gave James the signal, and he darted from the shadows, dragging Harry along in his wake. James bundled his son into an empty cart, a heavy door slammed, men hustled and bustled and swore, the signal light shone green ... and _The Flying Kipper_ was ready to go.

The wheels screeched and groaned, turned slowly and the train began to move, quickly picking up speed as it gunned into a tunnel and began the steep ascent to the surface.

Harry felt the thrill of adventure pound in his bones, even forgetting his usual illogical fear of the dark, as the lights of the city were left far behind. He pinned his ear to the wall of the cart, listening to the crunch of wheel on rail, dizzying himself with fantasies of what he would find when they emerged above. He turned to his father.

"Dad? What's it like _up there_?"

"Very different to what you know," James replied from the thick gloom. "It's very bright. That's the first thing you'll notice. It's Summertime, too, so you'll need to wear sunglasses before you step out into the world."

"Why?"

"Because, you haven't seen sunlight in a decade," James explained. "If we aren't careful, you could go blind."

Harry gulped, and swallowed a host of new questions that had suddenly occurred to him. So he decided to stick to the ones he had already been thinking about.

"Can you really buy spell books and wands and things up here?" Harry asked.

"If you know where to look," James answered. Harry couldn't see him, but he could almost _feel_ his father grinning smugly from across the train cart.

The journey to the surface took about half an hour. By the time the train began to slow, Harry was beginning to grow uncomfortable on the cold wooden deck of the cart. The train eventually came to a stop, and James' friend, the fireman, let them out and onto a lonely little station.

Harry frowned. "We're _still_ underground."

"Yes, son," James replied. "It wouldn't do for people to see a train disappear into the Earth all the time, would it? So we had to build a platform in this old mine shaft and take a lift to ground-level. Come on, it's this way."

James thanked his friend for the trip, and guided Harry a short way along the crude platform to a rickety old mine elevator. It had once been purple, but age and dirt had faded it to something closer resembling midnight black. Harry stepped inside and his father closed the cage behind them. Then he turned to Harry.

"Here, take these." He proffered Harry a pair of dark-lensed glasses. "They are called _aviators_ , and they will make you look pretty suave and cool. Not as cool as _me_ , though, not when I'm wearing _this."_

James smirked and pulled a most bizarre garment from inside his jacket. It was silvery, and flowed like liquid rather than fabric. Harry had never seen a material like it.

"What is that?"

"I could _tell_ you," James replied, his eyes sparkling mischievously. "But it would be so much more dramatic if I just _show_ you."

And with that, he threw the bizarre cloth over his shoulders ... and promptly _disappeared._

Harry gasped, his eyes bulging as they went very round. "Dad? Where are you?"

"I'm still here, son," a disembodied voice replied. That smugness was almost unbearable now.

"Dad!" Harry whispered, awestruck. "You're _invisible!"_

James pulled the hood of his garment down and grinned at Harry. "Pretty cool, huh? This is my _Invisibility Cloak_."

"Wow!" Harry replied in disbelief, punch-drunk as he stared at his father's head apparently floating in mid-air. "That's amazing! Can I get one?"

James chuckled. "They are _very_ expensive, Harry. Tell you what, what you go to Hogwarts I'll let you take it with you. See if you cant impress all those new friends you're going to make."

Harry felt a cosy warmth rise in his chest. _Friends_ ... he'd always wanted some of those. He was looking forward to _that_ part almost as much as he was casting his first spells.

But, as his mother had suggested, one thing at a time. So he pushed his indecent enthusiasm down a moment and followed his father out of the mine elevator and into the dazzling daylight of the late afternoon.

"Welcome to Wales, son."

Harry was instantly glad of his new sunglasses, for even through the tinted glass the light was painfully bright. Harry winced a little as it stung his retinas, but he was determined to keep his eyes open, to drink in all the sights of this brand new world. One thing he hadn't expected was for the light to be so _warm_. It was a lovely sort of heat that crossed his face, quite unlike the type produced by the the giant boilers down in Annwn.

But it was the view that truly warmed him. Gorgeous green fields and valleys sped away from him in all directions. There were hills and mountains in the background, and a hint of blue from the sea just peeping over the horizon. There were dots of white where sheep grazed merrily on the hills, and clumps of dense green forest, and the pale yellows of wild grasses, all kissed beautifully by that burning sun rising in the East.

Harry huffed crossly. "Dad ... you and Mum _lied_ to me ... it's not savage up here, it's _wonderful_. No ... it's _paradise_."

And in that moment, Harry thought he'd rather not go underground ever again. Not when there were such sights to be seen in the wide world above.

"Come on, Harry," James cajoled. "Let's go somewhere to make you even _crosser_ at your Mum and me."

With that, he threw his hood back on, took Harry's arm in his invisible hand, and jerked him away in a swirl of sound and colour. Harry felt squashed, as though he were being squeezed through a very narrow tube. His head span, he felt sick, and just when he was convinced he was about to see his lunch again, he felt his feet slam in to the hard stone of a London pavement.

Harry blinked to regain some sort of composure and looked furiously around.

"What the _hell_ was that, Dad?"

"It's called _Apparating,_ and it's a form of magical travel, essentially teleporting," James explained in a low mumble. "Now, Harry, you are out in public you know, and it will appear to everyone else that you are on your own. I wouldn't make a habit of talking out loud. Even in the magical world, talking to yourself is generally seen as a bad sign, son."

James chuckled at his own joke, and Harry fought the urge to kick his father in his invisible shins. He scowled at the patch of air that he knew his father to be, then flicked his eyes to the peeling awning of the grubby little building to their left.

" _The Leaky Cauldron_ ," Harry read. "What is this place?"

"A pub, a fine establishment for getting wonderfully drunk in," James replied fondly. "One of the most famous in London. Now, usually, the place wouldn't allow children in without adult supervision. But, as the new term at Hogwarts is just about to start, some very slothful students will have left it to this last weekend to stock up on their school supplies. So, _The Cauldron_ has relaxed its rules. Just head inside, take a Visitor sticker from old Tom, the barman. Tell him you are Muggleborn and don't know how to get on to The Alley. He'll do the rest."

Harry followed his father's instructions. The little pub was crammed with shoppers, many with children in tow, which probably explained the harassed expressions on the faces of the waitresses running about with hot plates of food and foaming tankards of ale. For a famous place, Harry thought it was rather dark and dingy. But he looked around in wonder, trying to soak up every image as though his brain was some weird sort of sponge. He didn't want to forget any of this when he was back in Annwn.

Old Tom was busy serving at the bar. A large family was stood nearby waiting to be seated, and they were growing restless. The mother, a rotund woman, was busy clipping one of her children around the ear, to stop him flicking peanuts at another of her children, who was furiously rubbing a patch of dirt from his nose. Harry sucked in a shocked breath, as he saw a _third_ child dart from behind his mother's big belly. This wasn't a shock in itself, but the fact that he was _identical_ to the first boy made Harry simply goggle at the lot of them.

And there _were_ a lot of them. Five children in total, all with blazing red hair. Four boys and one girl, who wore a haughty, weasely-type of expression. Harry imagined she was a troublesome child, very difficult to please. He wasn't sure _she_ was the type of friend he hoped to make when the time came for him to attend school.

"Hogwarts, dear?" a stern but kindly-looking older woman asked, startling Harry as he ambled around looking lost. "You must be Muggleborn. Trouble getting onto The Alley? Come along, chop, chop. I'll show you the way."

Harry followed obediently, as if he had no choice in the matter. The woman led him to a small area at the back of the pub. She reached into her cloak, an emerald green one, and drew out a magic wand. Harry watched, transfixed, as the woman tapped her wand against the brickwork in a practiced pattern. Harry tried to follow it, but the bottom suddenly dropped out of his stomach as he watched the wall churn and move and become a huge archway onto a truly wondrous sight.

"Welcome to Diagon Alley," said the stern woman, looking down at Harry. "You will be okay from here. Madam Malkin's is just there, and Flourish and Blotts will have all your standard spellbooks. If Quidditch is your thing, I understand the England International Team are holding an autograph session at the supply shop, before they head off to the World Cup in Canada next month."

Harry gulped and looked around. He was about to move off when a little poke in his ribs reminded him of his manners.

"T-thank you," Harry muttered mutely. "But, I don't have a Visitor sticker. Could you please tell me where I might get one?"

The witch smiled down, her expression softening in the face of Harry's nervousness. She looked over to an even older witch, who was just about to enter the arch in the opposite direction.

"Augusta, are you done for the day?"

"Yes, thank Merlin," the older witch replied. "My poor feet can take no more."

"Perfect. Can we steal your Visitor pass? This little boy has lost his."

"Of course," the old witch replied. "Neville! Come here!"

A small boy with a round face trundled up and stood chaste at the old witch's side. She reached down and tore a grey sticker from the t-shirt he was wearing, before planting it firmly on Harry's chest. Harry felt slightly winded by the impact, but managed to blurt out a stunted little ' _thank you',_ before setting off down the street.

Harry wished he had about eight more eyes. He turned his head wildly as he walked, trying to look at everything at once. He was mesmerised by the shops, the things they sold, and the people buying them. There were shops selling racing brooms, and ones full of owls and mice, and yet more with big buckets in the windows full of bats eyes and dragon livers. There was simply too much to take in, and Harry was reasonably convinced he had forgotten more in the last five minutes than he had in the rest of his life put together.

"In here," said a low voice suddenly in his ear.

Harry looked up at a big awning of a book and quill above Flourish and Blotts bookshop. He opened the door and ducked inside. Luckily, the shop was very busy. Harry was able to move unnoticed to a shelf deep in the back, where he could whisper to his father without drawing attention.

"What should I get?" he breathed, when he was quite sure there was no-one nearby.

"Look for _The Standard Book of Spells_ ," James replied quietly. "And _Magical Theory_. You wont be able to cast spells, as you cant have a wand yet, but your adeptness with runes is something we can explore. _Magical Theory_ covers basic ritual casting and circle creation. Your mother doesn't approve, but ..."

"Here it is," Harry chimed brightly.

He held up the heavy tome and showed it to his father. Or, at least, where he _expected_ his father to be. A quick scout of the shelves later and Harry had located _The Standard Book of Spells,_ too. Then, his eye fell on a book that seemed to just jump out to him.

 _"Hogwarts: A History_ ," Harry read on the cover. "Can I get this one too, Dad, just for some background reading?"

"Throw it in your basket," James chuckled. "That will do for now. We wont be able to carry them if we get many more."

Harry bundled the books into a mesh basket he picked up from a rack nearby and began to approach the till. Then, a horrible thought struck him.

"Er, Dad, how am I going to pay for these? I don't have any money."

James guffawed again, and Harry felt the cool fabric of his father's Invisibility Cloak flow over his wrist. A moment later, and several large coins slid into his hand.

"These are _Galleons_ ," James explained, as Harry examined the heavy gold coins his father had given him. "Just hand them over. Tell them to put any change into the Hogwarts Hardship Fund."

"What's that?"

"Not all magical families are so fortunate to be as well-off as we are," James replied. "The Fund provides financial assistance to the most needy of students, to help with school supplies."

Harry nodded and made his way to the counter, where he paid for his books. The shop assistant thanked him warmly for his generosity, and popped a few silver coins and little bronze ones into a tin next to the till. Harry frowned as he listened to the sound. It was disconcertingly _hollow_.

"Dad? How much more gold do you have on you?" Harry asked, watching as customer after customer took their change, not one depositing a single coin into the collecting tin.

"A little. Why?"

"Can I have it? _All_ of it?"

"What for?" asked James, curiously.

"Can I? Please?"

"Okay."

James slipped a dozen more gold coins into Harry's hand, and he made his way to the till again. He ducked under the flowing robe of a sallow-faced man with lank, greasy hair and reached up towards the counter once more.

"Excuse me," Harry mumbled politely to the scowling wizard, who frightened Harry a bit, reminding him forcibly, as he did, of a vampire from one of his comics.

Harry ignored the wizard's sneer, and his disapproving _tut_ , as he dropped all twelve coins into the Hardship Fund tin. Then he returned to his father, who steered him surreptitiously from the shop, with an approving pat across the shoulders.


	6. A Shadow of Marisa

Hermione flopped down onto her bed, running her hands through her tangled hair to offset the steady throb in her temples. She'd had another row with her father, who was deeply against her decision to head North with her new Mistress. But Hermione had made her choice and she was stubbornly sticking to it. The arguments, though, were taking it out of her.

Papageno flowed up as an ermine onto the pillow next to Hermione, his cool button-nose brushing against her aching forehead. Hermione closed her eyes and turned into his soothing little sniffs.

"Why is Dad being so _difficult_?" Hermione grumbled. "Why cant he just _see?_ Mum does, so why cant he?"

"He's just worried about us, that's all," Papageno replied. "I'd be concerned if he _wasn't_. And, to be honest, _I'm_ worried, too."

Hermione pulled herself onto her elbows. "You agree with us going, don't you? We have to try and find ... _whatever-his-name-might-be_ Potter. And then help him if we can. And then find a way to make him fall in love with us."

Hermione wore a cross little frown as she said that last part. It was this aspect, above any other, which seemed to be the biggest challenge of all, despite the myriad of more immediate ones facing them.

"I know, I know," Pap breathed back. "But it just seems such a long way to go, so far off. And there are bound to be all kinds of dangers out there. And it will be dark, and cold, and we might go hungry, and we'll be breaking about fifty international laws, and it could land us in prison, or worse ... _expelled_ from Jericho Prep. Doesn't _any_ of that worry you?"

"You seem to have it all covered," Hermione quirked in reply. "I think I'll just leave all our worrying to you."

"There's the other thing," Pap went on. "If we ever find your _Mr Potter,_ how will you know when you're in love with him?"

"I just will," Hermione chirruped dreamily. "I'm _already_ in love with him a little bit. And I haven't even met him yet."

"No, you aren't in love with _him_ , you're in love with an _idea of him_ ," Pap pointed out reasonably. "They are two very different things."

"I don't see how."

"Well what if he turns out to be spiteful and horrible?" Pap asked sternly. "What then?"

"He wont be," Hermione sang confidently. "You're forgetting that I have to _fall_ in love with him. Which must mean he's the sort of boy _worth_ falling in love with in the first place. Or, at least, the sort of boy _I'd_ be able to love ... and you know I don't like anyone who's mean and nasty, the kind who would make fun of me. I cant imagine Mother Nature pairing me up with _that_ sort, can you? Why would she?"

Hermione's mind was more than made up on the subject, and she fancied she wouldn't tolerate any other opinion on the matter. Not even from her own daemon.

"It would be awfully cruel of her," Pap nodded in sage agreement. "So, that's settled then - we're going?"

"We are," Hermione returned staunchly. "I just wish Dad would stop giving us a hard time about it. I'd hate to leave on such bad terms."

Just then, there was a knock on the bedroom door and Hermione's mother, Catherine, walked in without waiting for an invite. She leaned back against the door and considered her daughter carefully. Catherine's daemon was a prim little fox, whose name was Rampula. He began busily preening himself in the heavy silence, but never once took his swarthy, cunning eyes from Hermione, who had sat fully upright now, gearing for a fight.

"Is Daddy still very upset?" she began cautiously.

Catherine closed her eyes and heaved in a weighty breath. "He isn't happy about this at all, Hermione. You cant expect him to be."

"But I thought he'd be proud!" Hermione argued hotly. "I thought you both would be."

"And we _are_ ," said Catherine, crossing to sit on the end of the bed. "To be so singled out by someone as prestigious as Lyra Silvertongue ... it's wonderful news. But we were _already_ so proud of you before. It's just this ... _other thing_ that you seem so intent on doing. You father doesn't understand it at all."

"And do _you?"_

Catherine smiled benignly. "I know the raging pull of love, yes sweetheart. I moved from my home, left all my family behind, to marry your father. I even changed my first name to the Brytish version, just to fit in."

"Then you know why I have to do this, why I have to go," Hermione urged.

"I'd know it more if you were about five years older, or if you'd even _met_ the boy in question," Catherine replied evenly. "Or even if he was from _this world_. Cant you see how much you are asking us to accept?"

"Of course I do!" Hermione cried, leaping up and clasping onto her mother's forearm. "Don't you think I'm just as scared and confused and as frightened as you? To be told I'm going to fall in a love with a boy who I know absolutely _nothing_ about? It's terrifying, Mum. But it's also so wonderful, to know that the universe has such a plan for me. That I'm going to _get_ to be in love. Not everyone can say that. It's worth taking a risk for. I think so, anyway."

Catherine smiled warmly at her daughter. She was on the cusp of turning eleven, but she was, in many ways, an old soul in a younger frame. Dissolution from her peers had made Hermione more comfortable in the company of adults than other children, and Catherine often worried that it was ageing her before her time. Her world view came from the array of books she buried herself in, rather than the experiences of her environment. It gave her the air of being far more worldly than she was and she constantly confounded the expectations of someone her age.

"I just need you and Daddy to come around to this," Hermione continued. "I need your support, not to be told off for going on an adventure."

"It sounds like a very _dangerous_ adventure."

"The best ones always are ... that's what Miss Lyra told me. And she's been on quite a few."

"Indeed she has," Catherine chuckled. "Speaking of which, haven't you got a homework assignment to be working on for her? You told your father that's why you had to stomp all the way up here."

"I do not _stomp_ ," Hermione protested crossly. "I merely make my point with louder than necessary footsteps."

"Known to us mere mortals as _stomping,_ " Catherine laughed. "And don't pout, young lady. It doesn't suit you."

"I do _not_ pout!" Hermione shrieked indignantly, pouting as she did so.

Catherine hooted a laugh at her. "You just get on with your assignment. What is it anyway, anything your old Mum can help with?"

Hermione cocked an eyebrow at her mother. "Do you know anything about manipulating polarised anbaric ions to make Dust show up on a photoplate of silver nitrate solution?"

"Afraid not," Catherine sighed. "The only sort of _iron_ I know about involves that stack of laundry you've left for me downstairs. Once you're done being cross with your father, you can come and help me fold it. Did I spy your school uniform amongst that mountain of clothes?"

"It's in there somewhere," Hermione answered. "Mum ... do you think Dad will ever forgive me for going on this trip with Miss Lyra?"

"Oh it isn't the trip your father is so unhappy about," Catherine replied shrewdly. "It's the thought of losing your love to another man, before that person is even old enough to be _called_ one."

Hermione gasped. "Is _that_ what this is all about? Honestly! That's so silly. Daddy _must_ know that I'll always love him, no matter what happens or who I meet. He's my _Daddy,_ and nothing can change that."

"But a good father _should_ be very protective of his daughter," Catherine explained. "Giving up her care to that of another man is never an easy thing, and you know how your father dotes on you. I think he always thought he'd have more time before this particular rite of passage occurred. I suppose he feels he's losing you before you've even become a teenager."

"Well ... that's just ... it's ... well, it's ridiculously silly, Mummy," Hermione flustered. "Come on, we are going to talk to him _right now_. Make him see how silly he's being. Then everything will be all cheery again and we can start looking forward to my trip. I only have a month or two before we are ready to go. I have _so_ much to prepare ..."

* **

Across Oxford, where the waterways narrowed after the canal basin, and where the rugged wilds of the green belt began to give way to the concrete and steel of organised civilisation, was where the great and the good of the academic circle came to drink, and to indulge in the latest exotic brands of smokeleaf, and to swap rumours about the most popular heretical theorems doing the rounds among the great Universities of Europe. It was also here, above this melting point of scholarly iniquity, that Lyra had chosen to make her home.

Tonight she was staying in, resisting the temptation to head downstairs and argue the toss about the most recent oppressive doctrine from Geneva, or posthumously absolve the latest of the Magisterium-made martyrs to sense and reason, or else flirt outrageously with whichever poor man decided to catch her eye that night. She had never mastered the art of _letting them down gently_. Truth was, Lyra enjoyed the game too much.

But the _real_ truth was that there was only one man on her mind tonight.

And Pan knew it too, and told her so.

"I know what you're thinking."

"No you don't," she sniped back.

Lyra sipped deeply from her glass of Tokay. The '87 was a wonderful vintage. Pity she had only stolen one bottle of it from the cellars at Jordan.

"You've thought of nothing else, ever since you read the alethiometer."

Lyra sighed as she gave in. She'd spent far too long estranged from Pan to ever have the heart to really argue with him these days. Which was a pity, for she did so love to tease him. And he her, of course.

"So what if I have."

"Lyra, you have to be clear on this," Pan stated firmly. "If we go on this little venture, it is to help tiny Hermione. It is _not_ to go searching for _Will."_

Lyra felt her heart skip at the very mention of him. It sent a heat rushing up from her chest to her cheeks, or maybe that was just the Tokay repeating on her.

"I don't see why we cant do _both_ ," Lyra whispered excitedly. "Oh, come on, Pan! Don't try telling me you wouldn't give the entire world just to see him again! And Kirjava, too! You're a dirty liar if you say otherwise."

"I would never say that, as well you know," Pan skittered, turning his pine-marten eyes on Lyra inscrutably. "But, as always, it falls to me to point out that you're a savage and greedy little creature who thinks only of herself and her own selfish whims."

"Mostly," Lyra allowed, tilting her glass at her daemon in salute. "I'm my mother's daughter in that way, what can I say?"

"With your _father's_ stubborn arrogance and self-absorption. It's not the smoothest of blends, Lyra."

"You know, Pan, I'm starting to think _you're_ the reason I never got married," Lyra quirked thoughtfully. "I reckon you scared off all my potential suitors, if this was the way you swooned to _their_ daemons!"

"You did a fine enough job of that yourself," Pan replied grimly. "You being eternally single is a service to the rest of humankind."

"Perhaps I should apply for a medal, or a spot on the King's New Years Honours list then," Lyra laughed. "I think that counts as being worthy, don't you?"

"Dont get off topic," Pan admonished. "Be honest, not just with yourself, or even with _me_ ... but be honest for _her_. If you can stretch your gluttonous little mind that far. Be honest for the sake of that poor girl you are piggy-backing a ride across worlds with. Are you doing this for her ... or for _you_?"

"Oh Pan, darling dearest, why does everything have to be so black and white, so polarised?" Lyra exclaimed. "Hermione needs to go to another world, so we can help her do that. _And_ , if we happen to see a little tangent along the way to, well, _somewhere else_ , then why _shouldn't_ we go? You accuse me of having no imagination, I think you might have lost yours, too."

"It isn't imagination I'm worried about, it's reality," Pan bristled. "Hermione is just a girl. I really hope you aren't using her for your own purposes. That's a very _Mrs Coulter_ thing to do ... and I don't like it when I see _her_ behind your eyes. Be careful to remember your promise ... that you'd never _become_ your mother."

Lyra huffed and went back to her drink, looking out over the balmy night, as the spires of Oxford twinkled and loftily scrutinised her from afar.


	7. Lily's Promise

Harry looked up as the front door to the house clicked open. His head had been buried deep in the pages of _Hogwarts: A History_ , as his mother busied herself hanging a picture frame on the wall. Inside it, a poster had been tacked with great care. It was a most unusual thing for one to hang in the living room for two reasons. Firstly, the poster carried a _Wanted: Dead or Alive_ message, urging members of the public to disclose information on the whereabouts of vicious serial killer, who had been on the run for some time.

The second, more wondrous aspect, was that the subject of the picture was _moving_.

Harry watched, enchanted, as Sirius Black writhed and screamed dramatically in the image, which James had swiped from a shop window during their trip to Diagon Alley. His mother and father insisted Sirius was play acting the whole time, hamming it up for the cameras. He was just a showman like that. Still, it was almost hypnotic to watch, somehow more real and visceral than television or movies.

Or, perhaps, it was more to do with the fact that Harry's _godfather_ was a wanted murderer.

As extended family members went, Harry could think of few other ways in which Sirius Black could be more interesting. Of course, he _hadn't_ killed his parents - as the Wizarding World believed - but Harry's father _had_ suggested that Sirius had done something equally as dubious, though he had been very firm in denying all Harry's subsequent entreaties for more details. Which, naturally, simply stoked Harry's burning curiosity about the man.

Harry watched his mother, as she looked fondly at Sirius' face in the picture, which _winked_ at her when it thought the camera wasn't looking.

"Why do you think they are still looking for him?" Harry asked. "You'd think they'd just give up, being as it's so long now."

"You don't know the Ministry of Magic," Lily replied darkly. "Did I mention there's a Ministry of Magic? Well, there is one. And they were _hugely_ shamed when Sirius escaped from Azkaban, the Wizard Prison. They lost so much face over that you wouldn't believe it ."

"Why?" Harry pressed. "People break free from prison all the time."

"Not _this_ one," Lily hushed, her tone dropping from grey to black. "You see, it's guarded by the most horrid of magical creatures, things called _Dementors."_

Harry felt a prickle of icy anxiety kiss at his skin at the mere mention of these things. His mother's words were laced with the sort of terror a young child should never have to hear in their parent's voice. Harry shuddered as frosty tendrils of fear inched and crept across the tender flesh at the back of his neck, causing him to tremble involuntarily.

"What are they?"

"Best description? _Soul leeches_ ," Lily explained. Harry gulped hard at the suggestion. "They feed on human emotions, and positive ones are their absolute favourite. They leave only darkness and despair behind. They are the most unpleasant things, Harry. I truly hope you never have to meet one."

Harry nodded in hearty agreement. "I can see why they guard the prison, though."

"So do most people," Lily continued. "But they are a topic of controversy, because when they _punish_ a prisoner, a Dementor performs a _Kiss_ on them ... and essentially _eats_ the poor devil's soul. There is no recovering from that, and a person usually dies shortly after. Lots of magical people would prefer that they _didn't_ guard the prison, that they were rounded up and kept away from the public. But because Azkaban never has any break-outs, the Dementors are permitted to stay. But Sirius showed that they _weren't_ the flawless guards the Ministry would have the world believe. He embarrasses them, so they wont stop hunting him until a Dementor is sucking out his soul through his nostrils."

Harry shivered from his toenails to his eyelashes. He was quite sure now that his biggest fear - being afraid of the dark - had been firmly supplanted in his mind by these new terrors. He bit his lip in his fretful anxiety.

"But, you see, Sirius was able to escape Azkaban," Lily ploughed on. "Dementors are supposed to sap the will from people, making escape impossible, because the prisoners simply don't have it in them to try."

"But Sirius _did?_ " Harry asked reverently, re-imagining his Godfather now as a sort of Dementor-defying superhero. "How?"

"Like your father, Sirius is an Animagus," Lily explained. "In his animal form, the Dementors didn't have anything like the same effect on him. He was able to endure it much more than when he was a wizard. The Dementors stopped sensing him, and when they opened his cell to see where he was, he slipped right past them and trotted merrily out of the front door, picking up a juicy slab of steak, that had been left to taunt another prisoner who was on hunger strike, on his way to freedom."

Harry heard a laugh from the hallway and his father followed his own chuckle into the living room.

"Are you telling tales about my _brother from another mother_?" James quipped, ruffling Harry's already messy hair as he passed, causing the boy to scowl in frustration. It was a scowl that turned to a grimace a moment later, as James approached Lily and kissed her so deeply it was borderline indecent.

"Eww, disgusting!" Harry mewled in protest. " _Must_ you?"

James just laughed as he finally broke apart from his wife, whose lips were slightly swollen from the pressure. She whipped out her wand and performed a little cooling spell to heal them.

"You know, Harry, if you are _very_ lucky in life, you too will be plagued with the restless urge to kiss a girl like that some day," James retorted wisely.

"No, I will _not_!" Harry shot back, feeling violated by the mere concept.

"A boy, then!" James teased.

"James," Lily hushed warningly. "No taunting before dinner, please."

"Sorry, Mum," James grinned at his wife, whose eyes shone with amusement. "So, Harry, what are you reading today, son?"

"More about Hogwarts," Harry replied, relieved at the chance to change subject. "Dad ... what's _Quidditch_?"

"Oh, sweet Merlin!" James cried. "It's only the best sport in the world, son! I've been so looking forward to telling you about it."

And he was off, explaining all about the positions - which were filled by seven players on broomsticks, something that Harry struggled to even _imagine -_ and the three balls, and the scoring system, and that each of the four Houses of Hogwarts had a team, and that they competed for a Cup every year, and how it was _much_ more important to win the Quidditch Cup than the House Cup, something Lily vehemently disagreed with. But then she'd been hopeless on a broom, apparently.

"And I played Chaser," James babbled away excitedly. "And I was the best. Just ask your Mum. She never missed a game of mine. Though, I reckon she was just there to watch _me_ rather than the match."

"You know, I sometimes wonder how you manage, lugging that massive head of yours around all day," Lily laughed. "It's staggering that you even manage to get it through the door!"

Harry guffawed behind his hand, as James blew Lily a cheeky kiss, which she promptly mimicked catching and putting in her pocket.

"So, which House were you in?" Harry asked.

"Gryffindor," James and Lily chorused together.

"And that really is the best House," James added.

"What are the others?" Harry pressed.

"Well, there's Ravenclaw for all the brainy people, then Hufflepuff for all the duffers," James ticked off on his fingers.

"Hufflepuff are _not_ duffers," Lily admonished with a little frown. "Don't listen to your father. I had lots of good friends from Hufflepuff House. I do miss them a lot."

A sad smile crossed Lily's eyes and James wore of look of suitable chastisement.

"I thought there were _four_ Houses?" Harry pointed out, confused. "What's the other one?"

"That would be _Slytherin_ ," James answered in a spiky tone. "Or, as they are also known, _The Hogwarts House o' Evil!"_

"Evil?" Harry blurted. "Are they really?"

"No, of course they aren't," Lily replied, but she didn't quite meet Harry's eye when she said that.

"Though there is an old saying in the magical world," James added. "It goes - _'Not all Slytherins are Dark Wizards, but All Dark Wizards are Slytherins."_

"There is no such saying!" Lily admonished crossly. "Stop putting ideas into your son's impressionable young head, James Potter!"

"There _is_ such a saying," James argued cheekily. " _I_ invented it. So there."

"Why did I marry you?" Lily thought glumly. "There must have been another option _somewhere_."

"Yeah ... and _he_ was a _Slytherin,"_ James replied cryptically.

The angry, blazing look Lily sent at James just then would have incinerated a normal man, Harry was certain of that. He searched around for a quick change of subject.

"So, will _I_ be a Gryffindor when I go to Hogwarts?" Harry asked breezily. "Because both of you were?"

"That isn't how it works, sweetheart," said Lily, throwing a last dagger-laden look at James.

"Then how do you get picked?" Harry insisted. "Is it like _eeny, meany, miney, mo?_ "

Lily giggled at that. " _Sort_ of ... only a magic Wizard's hat chooses where to place you, and tells you so on your first day at school."

"Oh, okay," said Harry, who was starting to doubt and argue less and less about the nuances of the magical world. If there were talking hats, there were talking hats. That was just how it was. Then a worrying thought kicked into his mind. "But ... what if I'm not picked? What if it looks into my head, sees there's been some terrible mistake or something, and sends me right back home?"

Lily and James laughed fondly. Lily assumed the mantle of reassuring their son. "That wont happen, trust me. You've already demonstrated magical skill with the runes and with my wand. You are magical, you'll be placed in a house, don't worry."

"And what if it's Hufflepuff?" Harry mumbled.

"Then Hufflepuff House will have gained a wonderful young wizard who will be a credit to their rich history," Lily smiled.

"And whose parents are extremely proud of him and love him very, very much," James added warmly. "No matter which House he gets put in."

"Even if it's Slytherin?"

James chanced a testing look at Lily, then replied, " _Even_ if it's Slytherin. Though we wont love you _quite_ as much if you don't get Sorted into Gryffindor!"

"James Potter!" Lily reprimanded falsely. "Leave the poor boy alone!Yes, Harry, we will love you just as much if you get Sorted into Slytherin."

"Though, if you do, you'll have to leave your school robes at Hogwarts," James said in mock seriousness. "I wont have that badge in the house!"

He let out a bark of a laugh and Harry smiled weakly. He felt a little better, but there was a spark of eagerness to prove himself that was lodging itself in his heart. He didn't want to be the first person _ever_ not to be Sorted into a Hogwarts House. It was almost as scary a prospect as those Dementors.

Almost...

* * *

Harry was long in bed and Lily and James were listening to music in the living room, careful to keep it down low so as not to wake their sleeping son. Which was a frustrating endeavour, as the album they were listening to was the latest release by their favourite new band _The Weird Sisters._

And it was borderline agony to keep driving, symphonic metal at an _acceptable_ level. There would be no Going to Eleven tonight.

They offset their misery by taking advantage of some all-too-rare-these-days alone time, hotly kissing like loved-up teenagers on their squashy couch. All the talk of Hogwarts and Gryffindor had stirred memories in both, of similar passionate sessions in front of the Common Room Fire. At least the moving facsimile of Sirius on the wall had the good sense to cover his eyes with the placard carrying his Azkaban prisoner number.

It _wasn't_ a spectator sport, no matter how much Lily and James Potter tried to make it such. Nor that they would have been professionals at it if it were.

At some point, they drew breath. James cleared his throat, and turned sheepishly to his wife.

"The Muggles suspect something ... about _Harry_. I'm not sure how much longer we have. I know we wanted to keep him here all year, but I just don't think it will be possible."

Colour left Lily's face in a flash. She was the shade of old porridge when she finally found her voice again.

"What makes you think so?"

"Chatter around the office," James clarified. "And there's been a van parked outside the estate for the last three days. I bet if I opened it up it would be crammed with surveillance equipment. They know something's up, but who could say how far that suspicion goes."

"How long do you think we have?" Lily whispered under her breath.

"Impossible to say," James replied bleakly. "But I don't know how long we can risk second guessing it for. We might have to escalate the plan, take matters into our own hands earlier than we would have liked."

Lily gathered her strength with a steeling breath. "What are our options?"

"We have two, realistically, and neither are perfect," said James. "Plan One - we send him to your sister. She has a little boy of her own, her and Vernon might take Harry in for a few months, just until he starts school. Though we might have to bribe them with _most_ of the gold from our vault at Gringotts."

"That isn't even a plan," Lily hissed angrily. "And Dudley is far from _little_ , from what you told me about him. What's Plan Two?"

"Sirius," James punched out bluntly. "Problem there is that Harry would have to go to Grimmauld Place, and he wouldn't be allowed to leave till he goes to get the Hogwarts Express. I went to chat to Sirius the other day, and the house is still riddled with dark objects and trophies. I'm not sure if he'd be worse off there than in Privet Drive."

"What about Dumbledore? Couldn't he take him?" Lily asked pleadingly. "Maybe even put him up in a quiet corner of Hogwarts for a bit."

James looked over darkly at Lily. "I don't think I'd entrust Harry's care to Dumbledore unless I had no other choice."

Lily quirked an eyebrow at her husband. "You still don't trust him, do you? Even thought he defeated Voldemort?"

"Defeated him _eventually_ ," James replied cryptically. "Sirius has never told me the details, and it's not like him to keep something like that from me. It makes me uneasy."

Lily nodded as she considered James' words. "Is there _no-one_ else ... _nowhere_ else?"

She sounded so hopeless that James felt his heart ache at it. "I ... I suppose I _could_ ask Minerva. She'd certainly keep an eye on him, keep him on track. And we are related ... _sort of_. I'm sure if I turn on my charm I can guilt trip her into agreeing to this."

"Yes! That's it!" Lily cried. "Minerva will help us, won't she? That's _brilliant,_ James!"

And Lily threw her arms around her husband's neck and kissed him like it was going out of fashion.

"Don't go packing Harry's trunk just yet," James warned. "We have to ask her. Or, more specifically, _I_ have to ask her. That's not going to be a conversation that I'm looking forward to."

"I'm sure you will do a wonderful job," Lily cooed supportively. "This is our son, after all. And who knows, if this works, Harry's room will suddenly be free ... and maybe we can start thinking about turning it into a nursery again. Pink's nice isn't it? ... I like pink ..."

James Potter's face cracked into a stupidly wide grin, firm, as he was, in his certainty that he'd never heard a more motivational speech in his whole life.


	8. The Mirror of Wohsi

"Have you packed your thermals? I hear it gets very cold in the far North."

"Yes, Mum."

"And your hat and gloves?"

Hermione simply rolled her eyes at the suggestion she'd forget _those_.

"And enough clean socks and knickers to be going on with?"

" _Mum!"_ Hermione blushed hotly. "I've packed everything. Stop fussing!"

Catherine eased down on her restless pestering and tried to run a brush through Hermione's hair, but it was getting so thick now that the teeth kept getting stuck.

"Perhaps I should give this a little trim before you go," Catherine offered, snatching up a pair of hair shears from the vanity table. "Maybe just an inch from the bottom..."

Hermione turned and took her mother's wrist gently in her hand. She looked kindly into Catherine's fraught expression.

"I know what you're doing, Mother," Hermione whispered softly. "But you need to stop worrying. Everything's going to be fine, I promise. You have to trust me. I'm going off to do something really big and important. I'll make you proud."

"Oh, my little baby!" Catherine suddenly shrieked, snatching her arms around Hermione's dainty shoulders and nearly breaking them with her incessant pressure. "I'm going to miss you _so_ much! You will be careful, won't you?"

"No, Mum," Hermione replied incredulously. "I'm going to call every Tartar all the swear words I can think of, tell the Magisterium that God is a _woman,_ then, just in case that's not enough, I'll stick my head right into the jaws of the meanest, most vicious _panserbjorne_ I meet! That's been my plan all along!"

"Don't be flippant, my girl!" Catherine berated. "I'm still your mother, and I can still stop you going on this little adventure, you know."

Hermione looked grimly at her mother. "No, Mum ... you really _cant._ "

Behind them, Papageno whimpered in shame. It wasn't like Hermione to be so brazen, he wondered what was happening to her these days.

"Mum, look," Hermione started, her tone gentler. "I _have_ to do this. I don't know where I'm going, or how I'm going to get there, or what will happen on the way. All I know is that it feels _right_. More right than anything else I've ever known. And, when I'm done, I'll come back and tell you all about it. We'll sit in front of the fire, and drink hot chocolatyl, and you can make some of those Welsh Cakes I like so much, and I can tell you about all the exciting things that happened on my journey, and we'll laugh and cry and forget that you were ever cross at me at all."

Catherine dabbed at her eyes. "That sounds ... lovely. Yes, we'll do that. But, Hermione, just promise me you wont do anything reckless."

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know," Catherine mused. "Go looking for trolls, or something. I hear there are all kinds of monsters out there."

"Mother!" Hermione giggled. "This isn't a faery tale, you know. There's no such things as trolls. It's the night-ghasts and fire-drakes you need to worry about. They feed on the flesh of females who get lost on the ice ..."

"Hermione Granger!" her mother rebuked hotly, but there was humour behind her moist brown eyes.

An hour later and Hermione answered a knock at the door. Lyra and Pan were there, and a hackney-carriage was waiting behind them ready to deliver them to Abingdon train station. After a heart-achingly emotional parting with her parents, Hermione gave her mother one last kiss, hugged her father as closely as she could manage, then followed her new Mistress into the carriage. And away they went.

"So, how are you feeling?" Lyra asked as they rumbled along.

"I'll be alright," Hermione snivelled, as Pap became a meek little kitten and shyly licked her cheeks, to hide the tracks of her salty tears. "Where are we going first?"

"To the aërodock at Jordan," Lyra clarified. "I've booked us two seats on the six o'clock zeppelin to London. I hope you aren't afraid of heights."

As it was, Hermione was _very_ afraid of heights, but not so much as to make her reconsider her decision at this, the very first challenge. Besides, she had always wanted to ride in a zeppelin, but she thought it was very inconsiderate that they had to fly _quite_ so high.

She put her little tremble of fear into her back pocket for now. "Why are we going to London? That's East, not North."

"Quite right you are," Lyra smirked. "But we have to find a way to _get_ to the far North. It's not as easy as jumping on a boat and hoping for the best. The North is highly contested territory these days. Apart from studying the scientific phenomena, there is all sorts of interest in new substances that have been discovered up there, which are being investigated for use as fuel in atomcraft vehicles, and in terrible weapons too. Then there are the vast reservoirs of oil hidden deep under the ice. So, the North is in a state of almost perpetual, but secret, warfare ... and highly restricted to outsiders as a result. Getting there wont be easy."

"But, you do think we can?"

Lyra's eyes twinkled. "There is _always_ a way, Hermione. You just have to know where to look."

The London zeppelin was full for this flight. Ten other people were waiting patiently to board, but as Lyra was more famous and important than any of them, she and Hermione were allowed to get on first. The first thing that settled Hermione's sickening gout of nerves was the spaciousness of the gondola. There was a good three feet distance between her head and the ceiling, which offset the claustrophobia she'd been expecting to feel.

Second, was the comfiness of the seats. They were plush red leather, with mahogany arm rests and bouncy purple cushions. Hermione chose seats right in the front row, which Lyra heartily agreed with, as it allowed her to stretch out her long legs during the flight. They stowed their luggage into the assigned racks, Pap became a little mouse and perched on his paws so he could gaze out of the window, while Pantalaimon simply curled up beneath Lyra's knees and had a little nap.

And then they were airborne. Lyra gamely tried to distract Hermione from her Acrophobia by indulging in hushed talk about the other passengers. And what talk it was! Hermione was intoxicated by it. Talk about London, and the embassies and emissaries, who brought news of trade, and far off war, and high politics, a dangerous game played, in one way or another, by most of the people sat around them right now.

Then there was talk about banquets and soirées, and the intrigues between Whitehall and Westminster, and the spies the King had in both. Hermione was almost as fascinated by all that as she was the changing landscape below, which was becoming less and less green. More grey and concrete now, but with that long snake of blue, that was the River Thames, cutting a runnel right through the middle of it all.

They landed in Vauxhall Gardens, and from there it was a short boat ride across and down the Thames to the Embankment, where Lyra had a flat in the top floor of a converted townhouse. It afforded a good view of the river, which was brown right now, so maybe it wasn't quite so good, but Hermione drank it in anyway. The view that was, not the river.

"We'll just get settled, maybe have a quick bath, then head out for some dinner," Lyra suggested.

Hermione looked up in wide eyed surprise. "We're not going to have a bath ... _together_?"

Lyra hooted out a deep laugh. "Oh no, honey, I meant a bath _each!_ You're so funny! I think you're going to be quite the most fascinating and entertaining travelling companion."

Hermione blushed at that. Then Lyra showed her into a bedroom, where the bed was big enough to get lost in and there was enough closet space to house a small family. After unpacking, which didn't take long, as it turned out Hermione _had_ forgotten to pack extra socks and knickers, Lyra ran a hot bath for her with rose-pink bubbles and fragrant soap. Hermione shyly refused Lyra's offer to help wash her mass of hair, as it seemed too early in their relationship for such things, and so the task fell to Papageno, who carried it out efficiently enough, but perhaps wasn't as gentle and courteous as Lyra's female touch might have been.

Then they headed out for dinner at a restaurant in Covent Garden. The curtains here were scarlet and gold, and there were charming pictures on the walls, and every table had its own anbaric lamp with lilac frills on the shade. They ate from plates of Dutch Porcelain, which was prettily patterned in white and blue, and Hermione was treated to exotic pumpkin and pineapple juice - which she instantly decided was her new favourite thing - while Lyra sipped on red wines with complicated flavours, and tried to educate Hermione on how to tell the difference between a ' _good wine'_ and ' _pickling vinegar with a foreign name and a fancy label'._

By the time they had finished dessert, Hermione was beginning to get sleepy. They returned to the flat, where Hermione permitted Lyra to help brush her hair before bed. She sat stoically in front of a large vanity mirror, which had pretty lights all round the edge, and a carving in the frame that had been so worn with age so as to make it virtually unreadable. In any case, Lyra was convinced it was in a language nobody knew how to speak any more.

"Erised stra - _something something -_ oyt ube - _something_ _something_ \- wohsi," Lyra tried to read, as Hermione masked a wince when Lyra tugged on her hair a little too roughly. "Oh, sorry, honey. You may have the _thickest_ hair I've ever seen!"

"It's okay," Hermione replied grimly. "A brush hasn't yet been invented that can get through that bush on my head!"

Lyra laughed heartily. "Okay. I'll be more gentle, I promise."

"Thank you, Miss," Hermione grinned. "So, what language _is_ that on the mirror?"

"I have no idea," Lyra replied. "And I've had at least a dozen linguists and dialect scholars, even cryptologists and code-breakers, take a look at it. Whatever it is, nobody around _here_ speaks it anymore."

"Then what does it mean?"

"As we don't know, it could mean anything you like," Lyra grinned. "It could be a clue to seeing your heart's desire, for all we know."

Hermione frowned at that. "It's still just a mirror, though, isn't it?"

"Who knows," Lyra answered. "That might be a sort of _spell_ around the top. The world is full of mysteries like that, Hermione."

"Or it could just be a dedication," Hermione pointed out logically. " _To my darling, Erised, you look just as pretty now as the day I met you. I bought you a mirror so you can see for yourself. Happy Birthday, love Wohsi."_

Lyra rumbled with unrestrained mirth until she was forced to wipe tears from her eyes. "Yes, I think you're probably right! I've never thought of it that way. You really are the cleverest girl of your age."

Hermione flushed crimson again. "Thank you, Mistress."

"I'll have you calling me _Lyra_ before this trip is over," Lyra huffed. "That's my new mission in life. But, my first one, is to get you nice and refreshed for the morning. We have a busy day ahead."

"Why? What will we be doing?" asked Hermione, as she allowed Lyra to guide her over to that huge bed and tuck her in.

"Well, we have to go to the Royal Arctic Institute, just to get the latest news from Trollesund," Lyra explained. "That's where we will be going first. Then we have to find someone willing to take us, and find out how much it will cost to bribe them for the pleasure, and how much _more_ it will cost to keep their mouths shut about it. Then we might need to get someone to forge us some authentic travel documents, and then invent a convincing story about why we're going North in the first place. I think _you_ should do that, as my imagination is shot to pieces these days.

"Talking about _shot_ , I need to find us some guns, too. Failing that, some people to use them for us. Once all that's done, we just have to wait for Malcolm to get here, then we can go off."

Hermione blinked at all the information. If she hadn't been eager for sleep before, she certainly was now. For they really _did_ have a long day ahead of them.


	9. A Punt on the Thames

At about the same time that Hermione was touching down in the zeppelin, in another world Harry Potter was just arriving in _his_ version of London. He and his father had taken a far more conventional method of transport, the 7.05pm Thameslink train to St Pancras. From there it was a short Tube ride to Embankment station, then up into a recently modernised Georgian townhouse, which was now a block of swanky apartments for the trendy and affluent of Muggle London.

If you squinted _really_ closely, you might have thought that Harry and Hermione were in the same building. Perhaps even in the same _room_... even though they were _worlds_ apart ...

But Harry and James weren't alone. Sitting in a large bay window, on a cushion of purple velvet, was the stern-looking witch who had helped Harry get through the enchanted wall onto Diagon Alley all those weeks ago. It turned out that she was called Minerva and that she was the Deputy Headmistress of the magical school Harry would attend next year. She also taught a subject called _Transfiguration_ , which James explained meant turning one thing into something else.

Right then, Harry wished _he_ could be turned into something else, ideally something strong and brave, rather than the nervously quivering jelly he was right now.

For this woman was agreeing to become his magical guardian, but she was so stiff and stern that Harry wasn't sure if he was supposed to be afraid of her or not. He thought he probably _was_ , but then he remembered how nice and kind she'd been that day at _The Leaky Cauldron,_ and it left him all sorts of confused. But she was strict and clever, that much was obvious, and Harry was definitely in awe of her, regardless of whether or not that was laced with terror, too.

In opposition to this worrying uncertainty, was Harry's Godfather, Sirius. At first, Harry had leapt behind his father in a blind panic, when what he _thought_ was Minerva's bear-sized dog jumped at him, certain as he was that it wanted to eat his face for dinner. Then, in a dazzling display of magic, the dog transformed into a handsome man, broad and strong, and grinning from ear to ear at the sight of him.

"There he is! Come here, my boy!" Sirius boomed as he transformed. But when Harry ducked shyly behind his father, Sirius went on, "Hey, don't be scared now. Just come and give me a big old bear hug and get it over with. After all, I spent a whole _seventy-seven minutes_ in Azkaban just so you could go free."

James laughed at that, but Harry still clung to his father's jacket hem in his reticence. Sirius, far from being disheartened, simply changed tack.

"If you _don't_ give me a hug, I might change my mind about giving you the very expensive present I've brought to bribe you for your affections!"

Harry swallowed in his bashfulness. "Y-you've bought me a present? You didn't have to do that, sir."

Sirius looked fondly at him. "He really is Lily's son, isn't he?"

"Hey? What about me?" James protested good-humouredly.

"You!" Sirius blurted. "If I'd offered _you_ a present I'd be standing on my own already! I'd have been lucky to even get a thank you, let alone to be called _sir_."

James shook his head in mock indignation as Sirius slipped out of the room, returning a minute later with the most beautiful snowy owl Harry had ever seen. She was asleep right now, but Harry felt his heart melt at the sight of her.

"Is ... is that for _me_?" he mumbled shyly.

"It sure is, kiddo," Sirius beamed. "But, of course, if you don't want to give me a hug, I can always take her back ..."

And with that, Harry wrapped himself around his Godfather for the first time in his life. It wouldn't be the last.

"Does she have a name?" Harry whispered, as he stepped away from Sirius and accepted the cage when it was offered to him.

"No, I thought I'd let you choose one for her," Sirius answered. "Owls make great companions and they are very useful, too. In the magical world, they carry your post."

"I'm going to set up a little owl coop just outside Annwn," James stepped in. "So, when you want to send us letters, your owl can deliver them to us and bring back our reply. That is, of course, unless you start having so much fun that you forget all about your old mum and dad stuck with the Muggles underground."

Harry passed the cage back to Sirius, then clobbered his father with a hug around the middle.

"I'll write to you and Mum _every day_ ," he promised faithfully. "I'll tell you all about how I am doing and then you can send me as many _Mars Bars_ and _Twixes_ as my owl can carry! I'm not sure if they do good sweets in the magical world. Oh, I can't _wait_ to give her a name! Any ideas?"

"Sirius is a fine name," Sirius quipped seriously. "Or Siriusina, as she's a girl."

Harry frowned as James snickered away behind him. Minerva, too, wore a disapproving look.

"Mr Potter, my advice is to find a name you think suits the owl," Minerva offered. "I have brought you a book, as James said you love to read, and have already thrice gone through _Hogwarts: A History."_

Harry blushed in his embarrassment. He was humbly grateful for the presents being lavished on him, but he was quite sure he didn't deserve them.

"T -thank you," Harry stuttered. "What is it?"

" _A History of Magic,"_ Minerva replied. "If you enjoyed reading about the history of Europe's premier magical school, you will likely get lost in the wider history of the magical world. I'm sure that somewhere within its pages you will find a name that best fits your new familiar."

"Thank you very much," Harry mumbled, taking the thick tome in trembling hands. He felt a spike of guilt shoot through him as he noticed the book was brand new. He looked up at Minerva. "Is ... is there anyone at Hogwarts who might need this? I don't mind an older copy, really. I'll just be reading it for fun, but I'm sure I saw this was classified as a _first-year required text_ at Flourish and Blotts."

Minerva gave Harry the warmest smile she had yet afforded him. "That's very kind of you, but Hogwarts is plentifully supplied thank you. The book is yours, a gift from me. Take it and enjoy it. I absolutely insist."

"Thank you," Harry mumbled meekly, stroking the spine of the book as lovingly as he hoped to stroke his owl's feathers later.

Sirius huffed. "I buy him an owl ... but he prefers your _book._ I have a feeling we may have just started a little contest, Minerva. And on no account will I have my godson preferring _you_ to me. Don't worry - challenge accepted. I have my next gift in mind already. One that will fix a _nimbus_ around my head for sure ..."

Harry had no idea what that was supposed to mean, and no real will to ask further. Besides, he had several dozen questions that he needed answering already.

"So, what's going to happen to me?" he asked quietly. "I don't want to be any trouble."

"I'm afraid _trouble_ follows the Potter family around like a fart under a blanket!" Sirius quipped lightly, which caused Harry to snigger guiltily.

"In _cleaner_ terms," Minerva scowled. "Your father has purchased this flat for you to live in. I have agreed to take you on as my magical ward, as Mr Black here is a wanted felon."

"Guilty," Sirius confessed brightly, holding his hands up in surrender. "Well, guilty of being _wanted,_ not of the crime they think I committed. If they ever catch me, though, I'll have to confess to my even _bigger_ crime."

"What's that?" Harry asked excitedly.

"Why, of breaking the hearts of _so_ many witches!" Sirius hooted. "And of being the most handsome wizard in England. I assure you, the Dementors aren't the _only_ ones in Britain just going absolutely _crazy_ in the desire to _kiss me_!"

James erupted in a peel of laughter, and Harry quickly followed suit. Even Minerva's expression softened. Well, her jaw twitched awkwardly, which was as close to a grin as she was likely to get.

"Coming back from Cloud Cuckoo Land," Minerva went on. "I will become your primary carer. You will stay here, and I will return every evening once my Hogwarts duties are finished to take care of you."

"That's very kind of you," Harry mumbled mutely. "How can I thank you?"

"You will work hard," Minerva replied simply.

"Work on what?"

"I will set you little tasks," Minerva explained. "Sort of like _homework_. Magical problems, research, reading assignments, that sort of thing. You will study in the day, and when I come home in the evening we can discuss it. This is not a test, so do not worry about getting it wrong. But I _do_ expect you to ask as many questions as you can think of. That is my fee, and that is the only sort of thanks I will accept."

Harry beamed at her. "I can do that. Actually, I can't _wait_ to do that!"

"Oh, no, not so fast Minerva," Sirius huffed in. "You are not side-stepping me like _that_. Harry, you haven't heard what _I'm_ going to do yet."

Harry looked to his Godfather in astonishment. "Are... are you going to help look after me, too?"

"Of course, kiddo," Sirius grinned. "You don't honestly think I'd let you live a Snitch's Throw away from me across London and _not_ come to take care of you? There's more chance of the Chudley Cannons winning the Quidditch Super League than _that_ nonsense happening."

Harry felt a burning heat rise into his chest. He felt full up with it. He turned away though, to blink some annoying water droplets from the corners of his eyes. James moved to him, pulling him to his chest to protect his modesty. When Harry was ready, he sucked in a wobbly breath and turned back to the room.

"What are _you_ going to do then?" he asked.

"Well, once you get the chores of Minerva's study programme out of the way, we are going to have as much fun as you can handle," Sirius grinned. "We'll go to the zoo and the cinema, theme parks, football matches, whatever you like."

"Museums? Landmarks? The British Library?" Harry asked hopefully.

"Er, if you like," Sirius replied uncertainly. He turned to James in concern. "Have you taught the boy _anything_ about fun? I mean, _proper_ fun?"

James chuckled back. "He likes books, what can I say? Blame Lily. Besides, it's not as if I could teach him to fly a broomstick with all the Muggles watching, could I?"

"Ooh, that's what we'll do first!" Sirius exclaimed gleefully. "We'll head into the aerodrome on Fizzick Alley. I'll teach Harry how to _fly_! Would you like that, kiddo?"

Harry almost exploded with his enthusiasm. "Ooh, can I, Dad? Can I? I promise I'll be good."

James grinned down. "Well, that's up your _guardian_ now. You'll have to ask her."

Harry turned to Minerva with a cheeky grin. "You wont say no, will you _Aunt Minerva?"_

"You know, if you swoon at me so sweetly every time you ask something, I might have a difficult time refusing you _anything_. Oh dear, James, he's just _too_ adorable. I'm in so much trouble with him already!"

James guffawed and ruffled Harry's hair. "That's my boy. But I'm afraid this power struggle for my son's affections might have to become a _cold war_ for now. It's getting late. The gates to Annwn close at eleven. We have to get back."

"Can I just have a look around, Dad?" Harry pleaded. "I won't be long, honest."

"Okay, Harry," James conceded. "Your _Aunt_ and I have to finish up signing all this guardianship paperwork anyway. Just fifteen minutes, okay?"

And Harry was off. He visited the fitted kitchen with its black marble worktops, and the spacious living room that had a fifty-inch plasma television stuck to the wall. Then he thrilled as he saw the bathroom, which had been magically modified to fit a tub that was more swimming pool than bath. Finally, Harry went to claim his bedroom, the largest one of course, which had a nice view over the river flowing nearby.

And that's when he saw it.

It was a large mirror, so old and ornate that Harry thought it might have belonged to Merlin himself, who his Dad told him was the _first_ wizard in Britain. So he was older than the sun. Probably. Harry looked at the mirror, studied his reflection in it. And then, quite unexpectedly, he saw _someone else_ in it.

Initially, Harry jumped back at the shock. Once his heart rate had slowed to normal, however, Harry stepped back to the glass for another look. The room was dark and gloomy, lit insubstantially by the moonlight that had begun to scutter in through the long windows. So Harry couldn't see all that clearly. But he could see just about enough.

And what he saw was a girl standing next to him. He couldn't make her out very well, other than to be absolutely certain that she had a _lot_ of hair. Weirder still, was that she was _holding his hand!_

His first thought was that she had to be a ghost. Harry flung up his hand to his face to check, and the mirror-girl's went with him. He studied his digits; there was nothing there. So he looked back at the reflection, and the girl there was _definitely_ holding his hand. He wasn't touching her skin but - and this was the _weirdest_ thing - he _could_ feel her. Sort of. It was a bit like with the runes. He knew she was there, and he knew she meant something important, but he couldn't tell what.

Not that that was _strictly_ true. He did know _something_ about her ... he knew she was good and kind and all sorts of lovely. He couldn't have said _how_ he knew that, he just did. And he was as certain of it as he was that the sky was blue. And, far from being disgusted at the idea of holding a girl's hand, Harry rather thought he wouldn't mind holding _hers_ for a bit longer. Who was he kidding? He wouldn't mind holding her hand a _lot longer,_ maybe even never letting it go. Ever.

It was the strangest thing. But it filled Harry with a giddy warmth that he was sorry to lose, when the time came for his father to collect him for their journey back to Annwn.

"Dad?" Harry asked as they left the flat, his crackly voice an octave higher than normal. "What's that mirror doing in the big bedroom? Is that yours?"

"That?" James replied jauntily. "No, I'm just looking after that for Headmaster Dumbledore. It's his. He needs it for a project he's working on. Didn't tell me what. He's a funny man, Dumbledore, but you'll find that out for yourself. Now, what say we head to a burger bar before heading home? I don't know about you, but I'm _starving._ "

Harry could only agree, but it wasn't greasy burgers with plastic cheese he was hankering for, it was knowledge. And the answers to a hundred new questions that this trip had thrown up for him. Whatever else Harry had learned today, it was that the magical world was full of more mysteries than he could have possibly imagined before.


	10. The Royal Arctic Institute

Lyra blew on her coffee to cool it, frowning at herself as she puffed a little too hard and sent the golden liquid spilling over the edge and into her saucer. What was it that Malcolm liked to say about her? ' _She had all the grace and delicacy of a blunt-bladed battleaxe'._ Or something like that. She scowled as she tried to remember.

Then her ears pricked in alarm, as a crash sounded from the direction of Hermione's room.

Lyra went to leap up, but Pan leapt on _her_ to keep her in place.

"What are you _doing_?!" Lyra shrieked, as quietly as she could manage.

"Stay where you are," Pan replied firmly.

"Hermione might need us!" Lyra hissed. "Didn't you hear -"

"That was the bins being collected in the street," Pan dismissed, digging his claws painfully into Lyra's thigh. She grimaced, ground her teeth, but let out no sound.

"Let me just check ..."

 _"Stay where you are!"_ Pan ordered. "Let the girl _sleep_. She was exhausted last night."

"Exactly," Lyra agreed. "She needs rest. And if the bins woke her, she might be frightened. I think I'd better go and see her, just to be sure."

"If you try and move from that chair I will bite your ankles until you bleed," Pan warned. "Sit still."

"What is the _matter_ with you, Pan?" Lyra protested.

"There's nothing wrong with _me_ ," Pantalaimon retorted. "It's _you_. If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were _broody._ "

Lyra froze in an instant. The problem was _no-one_ knew her better than Pan, her dæmon, her love, her heart. She could hide nothing from him. More was the pity, for she was desperately keen to hide _this_.

So she tried anyway. "I ... I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"Poppycock!" Pan cried. "You know full well."

"Full well _what_ , then?" she provoked.

"The hair brushing, the running the bath, the barely sleeping in case Hermione needed something in the night," Pan returned triumphantly. "You're _broody_ ... you think she can become the daughter you always wanted to have."

Lyra opened her mouth to argue, but the words got lost somewhere on the way. How could she argue against that? It was impossible. Not when there was truth in _every syllable._

"Okay, so maybe I do," Lyra huffed, seeing that it was futile to deny it. "But even you have to admit that she's remarkable. If I could have _fabricated_ a daughter, picked up some mud from the claybeds at Jericho or something and fired it in my oven, I cant imagine it would have come out any more perfect than _her_. She _is_ the daughter I always dreamed of having."

"Only she _isn't_ your daughter," Pan pointed out. "She belongs to those dentists back in Abingdon. I thought I knew what this was all about, what your scheme was right from the very beginning. But now, I'm not so sure."

"What nonsense are you spouting now?"

"I thought this was all about Will, of crossing worlds to find the boy you loved and lost all that time ago," Pan explained. "But I see I was wrong now. This isn't about Will at all. It's about Hermione. Or, more specifically, about you _kidnapping_ Hermione. Taking her to another world and pretending to be her mother there."

"Well ... that's just ... it's ..." Lyra flustered, casting around desperately for an explanation that might save her from Pan's assault. But, of course, there wasn't one.

"It's called _the truth_ ," Pan scythed. "Lyra Belacqua - how _could_ you?"

Lyra yielded and sighed deeply. "Okay, Pan, _maybe_ there's a little bit of truth there. A tiny bit. About as big as an atom. Or, what are those things smaller than atoms?"

"Quarks."

"Yeah, one of those," Lyra nodded, jumping on the excuse. "But that's not the _only_ reason. I _do_ want to try and find Will."

"And are you going to be honest about _why_?" Pan frowned. "Remember, Lyra, that I _already know_ the answer."

Lyra bit her lip guilty. She sighed. "So that I can see if he might want to be Hermione's _Dad_... so that we can start again. Be a little family where no-one knows us."

"Lyra!" Pan reprimanded. "That's a cruel and wicked scheme! It's a new low and, for you, that's actually saying something!"

"I'll help Hermione do all the things she needs to do in this new world!" Lyra argued passionately. "But she will need someone to look after her, wont she? She cant go running around without supervision. There must be authorities and councils and ministries where we are going. If they see a young girl going around on her own they are bound to get suspicious, aren't they? So we'll _have_ to pretend anyway."

"And that's how you justify this in your mercenary little mind!" Pan yelped angrily. "You are quite unbelievable sometimes! Actually, no, _most_ of the time."

"Pan!" Lyra mewled, hurt. "Stop being so mean to me!"

"Then stop acting so irredeemably!" Pan shot back. "We have to take Hermione back home. Right this instant."

"Take me home? Why? Have I done something wrong?"

Lyra snapped her head towards the bedroom area, where Hermione was emerging from her room, sleep-mussed and confused. She tugged on the tassels of her dressing-gown in her anxiety.

"Oh no, hon - _Hermione_ ," Lyra replied, fighting with the rampant urge to go to Hermione and comfort her. Pan was looking at her in just that threatening a way in that instant. "You haven't done anything wrong."

"Then why do you want to take me back home?"

Lyra noticed Hermione's little dæmon, Papageno, had crawled onto her shoulder as a tiny mouse, his pin-sized black eyes looking scared and lost. Lyra's heart bled as she looked at them both.

"We were just having a _... disagreement,_ that's all," Lyra answered, offering what she hoped was an encouraging smile. "We know how difficult this all is for you, leaving your family and everything you know behind, to go in search of something in another world. Pan was just saying that it isn't fair on your mother and father and that you are too young for all this."

"And that you should take me home?" Hermione queried, finishing Lyra's speech for her. Lyra nodded in confirmation.

Hermione padded across the room and, very bravely, addressed Pantalaimon directly. It was the first time she'd ever spoken to Lyra's dæmon in such a blatant way, and it promised to be a watershed moment for them.

"Thank you, Pantalaimon, for being so concerned for me," Hermione began in a near-whisper. "I'm touched, really I am. But this is _my_ choice. I'm here because I need to be. No, that's not right. I'm here because I _want_ to be. I want to go to this other world, and find this boy I'm supposed to fall in love with, and see if I can get him to fall in love with me too, and do all these wondrous things the alethiometer says we're going to do together. I've never wanted anything so much in my whole life. And I know that it's weird and scary and a hundred types of strange. But it's what I want to do.

"Only, I cant do it by myself. I wouldn't have the first clue where to start. And I'd be ever so frightened to try and do it on my own. But I know you and Miss Lyra will look after me. You've done this before, so you can show me the way. And you can find ways to keep me safe and make sure I don't do anything silly.

"I _want_ to do this ... but I _need_ you to help me. So, please don't send me away."

Pan blinked his pine-marten eyes in a firm show of solidarity. Then, in a move that almost stunned Hermione to her core, he moved _very_ close to her. For a wild moment, she thought he was going to touch her - which, of course, was an incredibly taboo thing to do - but, at the last moment, he turned his head to touch noses with Papageno, who had become a stoat as Hermione's courage grew within her. Hermione puffed out a shy, relived breath, as Pantalaimon moved away and began preening himself in the large bay window overlooking the Thames.

"How about some breakfast?" Lyra chirped, jumping up brightly. "Eggs, sausage and smoked bacon sound good?"

"It sounds _delicious!_ " Hermione beamed, smacking her lips at the very mention of food.

After breakfast, Lyra and Hermione headed back across London to the Royal Arctic Institute. This impressive building was the very centre of Arctic-based research, debate and extreme anthropological record. There had been human settlements in those harsh environments for longer than there had been methods of documenting them, and they remained a topic of intense interest for scholars the world over.

Hermione looked around in wonder as Lyra gave her the grand tour. For aside from being a premier research institute, it was also a museum. Hermione was held in thrall by the hanging displays of walrus skeletons, of the huge open jaws of sharks and whales, and the detailed display recounting the hunting patterns of the Arctic fox.

Then there were photograms, including _moving ones_ , which was a new technique being pioneered by engineers, that left Hermione jaw-droppingly mesmerised. She watched as a flight of puffins dived and swooped into the frozen sea in search of breakfast, and as a pack of orca arced and swept though the ocean, perhaps funning with the group of seals in the next image, who seemed content to simply play _hide-and-seek_ amongst the ice drifts.

Hermione came to the next image ... and promptly lost her breath.

"Is that ..." she whispered in hushed tones.

Lyra grinned widely. "Yep. They are the _panserbjorne_."

Hermione blinked in startled wonder. "Wow. They are so much _bigger_ than I imagined. And that armour looks as thick as man's body."

"Thicker even than that," Lyra clarified. "And you wait till you see them up close. They are even more massive in person. Nothing makes you feel quite so small as when you're standing next to an Armoured Bear."

"It's funny though, isn't it?" Hermione queried. "How they are all standing around like that? It's almost as if they are _posing_ for the camera."

Lyra laughed out loud. "Yes, I suppose you could say they look like that!"

"But aren't the bears really solitary creatures?" Hermione frowned. "I read about that in _Lester's Guide to the Creatures of the North._ "

"And Nick Lester was quite right," Lyra nodded. "There's no word for _socialise_ in bear-language. They only meet up to mate, or to hunt when food is scarce, or when the Bears go to war. Which isn't often, as there is rarely a war fought that they deem worthy of their mettle."

"But _someone_ must have gotten them to stand still like that, mustn't they?" Hermione ploughed on. Lyra nodded. "That cant have been easy, then?"

"No, you're quite right."

"That person must have been _really_ powerful and important, I bet," Hermione enthused, wondering just what sort of magic-worker could have pulled off such a feat. "To order the _panserbjorne_ about ... that must be someone really special."

Lyra looked down with twinkling eyes. "Well ... I wouldn't say I was _special ..."_

Hermione goggled at Lyra in a state so awestruck it bordered on hero-worship. It actually brought a tinge of pink to _Lyra's_ cheeks, which was as astonishing a feat as any, for she was a woman not taken to bouts of humility.

"How did you ...?"

"I asked for a favour," Lyra grinned. "Do you see that bear in the middle? The biggest, most gnarled one? That's Iorek Byrnison, the King of The Bears. We have a lifetime companionship that is deep and satisfying. I was testing out a new nitrate solution, one that picks up colour without needing to be tinted in a lab, when I was last in the North. So I paid a visit to Iorek, and obviously I just _had_ to take his picture. It was mating season, so I just got him to get all the bears together so I could take the photogram of them all."

"And a fine one it is," said a voice from behind them.

Hermione turned and saw a man of about sixty just off Lyra's right shoulder. He had greying hair, small with quick eyes and a clever expression. Hermione wasn't sure whether to be afraid of him, until Lyra suddenly turned and snatched her arms around his neck.

"Didier!" Lyra cried out, pecking the man on the cheek. "How good to see you!"

"Likewise you, Madame Silvertongue," Didier responded warmly.

" _Madame Silvertongue_!" Lyra scoffed. "Are we on parade, Didi?"

"Well, I _am_ working," Didier grinned. "But enough play. How are you, Lyra?"

"Well, I'm not pregnant, so that's something," Lyra teased.

"And the world thanks you for it," Didier laughed in return. "And who might _this_ be?"

Didier nodded down at Hermione, who took a shy step behind Lyra for protection. It was a move which warmed Lyra's thawing heart, and Pan had to subtly scratch her ankle with his claw to remind her of their conversation earlier.

"This _might_ be Ceridwen, Keeper of the Magic Cauldron!" Lyra funned, which made Didier smirk all the way to his startling eyes. "But it isn't. This _is_ my new apprentice, Hermione Granger."

Didier looked up in genuine surprise. "You? Lyra Silvertongue ... have an _apprentice_? The woman who learned her famously solitary ways from the _panserbjorne_ themselves ... has a _pup_ all of her own at last?"

Hermione piqued at that. There was an unusual stress on the last part ... and Lyra _did_ seem to get stressed by it. Hermione was pained to see it, but put the question aside for now.

"Now, now, Didi," Lyra retorted hastily. "She's more of a _kitten_ than a pup! But she's bright as a button and I thought I'd show her around your fine establishment."

"An excellent choice!" Didier boomed heartily. "We'll make a mentor out of you yet, Lyra." He turned to Hermione. "Don't be shy, little one. You really are a tiny specimen, aren't you? My name is Didier Sadio-Mane, Curator of the Collection here at the RAI. How do you like the exhibition?"

Didier was kindly, grandfatherly. Hermione could see why Lyra liked him. And if Lyra liked him, Hermione thought she would like him, too. So she stepped forward briskly and offered her hand to shake, which Didier took with another roaring laugh.

"It's _wonderful!_ " Hermione exclaimed. "Truly wonderful! Thank you for letting me look around."

"It is my pleasure," Didier smiled. "I always wish we'd have more young people come to enjoy the place. We need the next generation to carry on the fine work laid down by others. It is truly unfortunate that, in the current climate, so many choose to focus their studies elsewhere."

"Is the North still a highly contested territory then?" asked Hermione, re-quoting Lyra's words as if they'd come from a textbook.

"More so than ever," Didier sighed heavily.

"Which is why you need to tell me all about it," Lyra cut in pointedly. She turned to Hermione. "Why don't you go down to the cafe near the exhibition entrance, order us a couple of coffees? Just ask Julia behind the counter to put it on my tab. The Curator and I need to have a conversation somewhere private."

"My office," Didier replied, his demeanour changing in a heartbeat. His sudden burst of seriousness made Hermione shudder where it had taken her off guard. Lyra nodded and they headed off in opposite directions.

Lyra was gone for over half an hour. Hermione had finished _both_ their coffees, and read several of the brochures from a rack near the exhibition stall, when she started to get concerned. She sat on her hands and rocked back and fore while chewing her bottom lip, her eyes pinned to the staircase leading back to the photogram displays, just waiting for that flop of dirty blonde hair to come bouncing down the steps.

But then her view was unceremoniously blocked.

Hermione looked up, in shocked surprise, as two large men stood directly in front of her. They were dressed in identical black corduroy suits with wide-brimmed Trilby hats, and both wore expressions dark and threatening. Hermione swallowed hard and tried to look her innocent best.

"C-can I help you?" she stuttered.

"We've been watching you sat here alone for nearly an hour," one fired. He was clearly the senior of the two, as his colleague was half-a-foot back. "What are you doing here?"

His tone was so brusque that it almost made Hermione cry. But she didn't think that's what Lyra would do, so she tried to be brave like her.

"I just came for the exhibition," Hermione twittered placidly. "I really like the North, you see."

"Do you now?" the other man sneered.

"Oh yes, all the bears and the seals and the ice," Hermione replied breezily. "I hope to see the Northern Lights someday, too. They are my absolute favourite."

"And who will take you there? It's very dangerous to get to the North. Did you know that?"

Hermione bit her lip yet more rapidly. She felt like she was in trouble, as if she were being _interrogated_. It sent a thrill of fear sweeping over her prickly skin.

"Who will take you there?" the agent pressed. He was growing more agitated now, Hermione could tell that. She grasped around for a plausible excuse.

"My ... my m-mother," Hermione stuttered out.

"Your _mother_?" the man sneered back. "And how will _she_ get you to the North? Who is she?"

"She's an explorer," Hermione invented. "She goes on expeditions to test out new photogram nitrates, even the new ones that move. Have you seen those? They are just upstairs if you want to have a look."

The man practically _growled_ at her, which made Hermione squeak in her throat.

"And where is your mother now? Is that who you are here with?"

"Yes, but I don't know where she is," Hermione replied quietly. "She was taking some new photograms to the Curator, to see if he wanted to buy them from her for the collection. That's how she makes money, you see."

"Is that so? And what else does she do?"

"She gets _very_ angry when she finds Agents of the Consistorial Court of Discipline _harassing_ her daughter!"

Hermione felt a sort of anbaric charge shoot through ever particle of her body - _she was saved_! She looked up to see Lyra marching across the floor, her face white and furious, savage rage etched into every line of her expression. Didier was struggling to keep up in her wake, such was her mindless imperative to reach Hermione.

The agent baulked slightly at the sight of her. " _You_?"

"Me!" Lyra confirmed in a low bark.

"This is your ... your dau -"

"Never mind that!" Lyra hissed, slapping his hand down where he'd been gesturing towards Hermione. "How _dare_ you interrogate her. How _fucking_ dare you! Look at her! She's _terrified_! She's just a girl. Does it make you feel strong, tough? Make you feel there's something substantial to fill your codpiece, rather than the pathetic _tiny_ appendage you normally have dangling there?"

The Agent bristled and flushed, but kept his own ire in check.

"You want to hassle someone?" Lyra spat aggressively. "Try hassling _me_."

Hermione felt a wave of glee cross over her. Lyra was so fierce, so protective, it made her shiver with happiness. Even Pan was primed for a fight. Every hair on his pine-martin body was alert and on-end, as if he too were charged with that same anbaric force that was sweeping off Lyra like a magnetic storm front.

But the Agent was no coward. He faced up to Lyra as if they were two prize-fighters sizing each other up.

"Do you have the Magisterium's permission to be in London?"

Lyra responded with a hollow, mirthless laugh.

"No. But I went to a _higher authority ..._ I asked your God ... and _she_ said it was okay!" Lyra taunted viciously, causing Hermione to throw a hand to her mouth to catch a shocked gasp that escaped there.

The Agent clenched his jaw. "And what are you doing at the Royal Arctic Institute?"

"Funny you should ask that," Lyra provoked. "I'm working on a joint paper with some scholars in Hamburg, investigating the effects of _trepanning_ on the absorption of Dust into the human psyche. I know you CCD-types don't have much time for Dust, so I wont bore you with the details. See what I did there ... _bore you?_ I'm such a comedienne.

"Anyway, my theorem is that bigger holes make for greater absorption. The Institute has a fine collection of Tartar skulls here with examples of standard hole size, so I'm comparing that with the drill bits I've been collecting, to see how big I need to go. And I'm always looking for volunteers, so if you gentleman want to do a service to science and the Magisterium, just let me know. It's quite possible I might end up _contradicting_ all this Dust heresy by the end of my research. You would be heroes, martyrs in the name of Divine Providence. They'd name high schools after you, or aëroports. If you like, we can step into one of the labs here right now. I have all my equipment with me. I should warn you though, I've not done this very much, and I wouldn't want my hand to slip and drill _too far_ down ..."

The Agent snickered and sneered at Lyra, his hyena dæmon poised on her haunches. Pan had his eyes on her juicy throat, his own teeth bared in readiness. The sight made Hermione tremble. Then the Agent gave a little huff and turned to go.

"We'll see you soon."

"It's a date," Lyra growled back.

And with that, the CCD Agents turned and left them quite alone.


	11. The Sowilo Rune

Harry scowled, cursed, rubbed his scuffed knee, then got up to try again. He looked out from the lofty position of the Potter estate, down across the twinkling lights of the towers and high rise accommodation blocks of Annwn, which stuck out stark against the dark, since the main illumination from the Light Deck hadn't come up yet. He really would miss the place when he was gone. This view was maybe his favourite of all.

But now was not the time to be regretful. His future promised to be bright, full of magic and adventure. He had to focus on that. So he threw his leg over the wooden pole once more, hauled himself back up onto the mound of crates and boxes he'd managed to cobble together, took a last, determined breath ... then _jumped_.

And promptly fell flat on his face. Which caused him to invent several new swear words as he picked himself gingerly up once more.

"What _are_ you doing?"

Harry leapt up, turning scarlet in his embarrassment. He wrung his hands guiltily as his mother crossed the garden to meet him.

"Harry?" Lily pressed, a smile touching the corners of her mouth. "What exactly are you up to?"

"Nothing," Harry muttered, looking past his mother to an interesting spot over her shoulder.

Then Lily's eyes turned down to the patch of gravel Harry had been using as a crash-mat. And her face ignited with mirth.

"Are you ... trying to _fly?_ "

Harry felt his cheeks burn, and tried to roll the broomstick at his feet under one of the boxes, which had toppled over after his last jump.

"No," Harry replied shamefully. Because, of course, that was _exactly_ what he'd been trying to do.

Lily closed the distance between herself and her son and picked up the broom from under his heel. She looked at him seriously.

" _This_ is how you use a broom," Lily teased, her eyes twinkling, as she promptly turned the brush the right way up and began sweeping the footpath, which made Harry laugh at himself for being so silly.

"I just wanted to see if I could," Harry grinned shyly. "I don't want to make a fool of myself when my Godfather takes me to learn."

"You wont make a fool of yourself," Lily returned supportively. "In any case, it'll be your first time. It's quite unlikely that you'll be a natural on your first go. And I don't know what the rush is anyway. First-year students never get picked for the House Quidditch teams at Hogwarts. I know your father has been putting more ideas into your head, but you need to be aware of how these things work. Don't think that I'm being cruel, honey, it's just that I don't want you to be disappointed when you don't get picked."

Harry wasn't put off by his mother's sage warning. The way he saw it, she would just be even _prouder_ of him if he confounded expectations, did better than anyone expected. It drove Harry like a dynamo, and he was fast becoming a ball of potential energy, restlessly keen to get on with the business of learning magic.

But that was the best part of a year away. Harry wasn't sure how he was going to stand it. But there was still a heck of a lot to do before he could start to think about that. In any case, his mother had begun to develop a theory about him, based on his adeptness with the runes.

For it turned out that Advanced Runic Theory was integral to a particularly mysterious branch of magic that very few wizards ever embarked upon - alchemy.

To begin with, Harry was stunned that this _was_ a branch of magic, for there were alchemists working in various scientific disciplines throughout Annwn. Mostly they looked to turn the cruddy metals that were dug up and processed from the Earth into pure gold, for use in electronics and other pieces of technology. Much of the junk wasn't purifiable, and ore samples were regularly sent to Lily, who used magic to tell if they were suitable for the transmutation or not.

But, apparently, alchemy was _all_ about magic.

Harry listened, fascinated, as his mother told him all about it, about how proper alchemy created not just gold, but liquid potions that could cure any disease and make you live forever. In Harry's mind, that was about as magical as you could get. Lily waxed lyrical about a famous French wizard named Nicolas Flamel, who was the only known person to have ever managed to successfully create these elixirs. He'd met the Hogwarts headmaster Dumbledore, many years ago, when his daughter Amelie competed against him in some sort of inter-schools magic competition, where an Austrian wizard named Grindelwald had controversially cheated to win.

Alchemy was such an obscure branch of magic that it wasn't covered by the myriad of spells and enchantments, which monitored underage witches and wizards for use of magic outside of controlled environments. So Lily decided to teach Harry the basic rudiments of this high art while she still had time, safe in the knowledge that she wouldn't get caught.

Early one morning, she woke Harry gently and urged him to quickly get dressed in the dark of his bedroom. He wrapped up warm and followed Lily from their estate home, as they made their way across town. The lights were just coming up now, which gave the citizens a sense of _almost_ sunrise, which the Director of Annwn thought was a good idea for keeping up people's spirits down here in the eternal, palpable dark.

Harry knew quickly where they were going, recognising the route right away. They took a left at the end of the row of steelworker's cottages, down past the vast botanical farm of West Bute, where they grew carrots and black turnips under an array of hot lamps, and from there it was up and over the narrow suspension bridge which spanned Pincott's Ravine, to Marquis Park, where all the citizens exercised for two hours a day. Harry had seen them at it many times, lined up in long rows, jogging on the spot and squatting up and down and things like that. All in identical black outfits. Harry knew it wouldn't be long before he had to join them in the compulsory activity.

But for now, he was simply trotting along in his mother's slipstream. She had promised to take him to another secret little cave she had found, where they would begin his journey as an Alchemy Adept. Harry had absolutely no idea what that meant, but it was pleasantly alliterative and it wasn't as if he had anything better to do.

But the cave turned out to be a bit of a joke.

"Is this _it_?" Harry scoffed.

For the chamber was unremarkable, apart from the fact that it was perfectly round, as if made by a massive drill bit. And it was very small. If he had laid down on the damp ground and stretched as far as he could go, Harry was reasonably convinced he would have been able to touch the sides. And it lacked the surge of power he'd felt at the Inverted Pyramid. He was disappointed, he couldn't help it.

Then his mother flicked a switch that Harry hadn't seen, hidden into a deep groove in the wall.

There was a mechanical _crunch_ of rock just above them, and a stream of light burst into the chamber. Harry shielded his eyes against it, peeking through his fingers until the initial shock of blindness passed. In the centre of the room was a pale cylinder of stone so white it might have been silver. Harry couldn't really tell. It was exactly the same diameter as the shaft of light, and Harry was hit with a confusing impression as he looked at it.

For it was almost as if the cylinder was _creating_ the light, sending it up rather than it coming down from above. It was a most bizarre thing.

"Shall we?" Lily quirked.

Harry turned to his mother. "What should I do?"

"Take a seat," Lily urged, motioning Harry towards the cylinder of light. "Then we can begin."

Feeling rather foolish, Harry moved forwards and lowered himself onto the cylinder. For a few moments, nothing happened. But just as Harry was about to give this up as a bad job, his mother began walking around him, placing the most bizarre set of objects on the ground as she muttered to herself.

Harry watched as his mother cupped her hands out in front of her. Suddenly, a small, domed tower materialised in her hands.

"The athanor - provider of the Secret Flame," she whispered reverently. "I call on the Spirits of Fire to imbibe my circle."

A sweep of energy thundered around the little chamber. Harry felt it pound through his body like a sonic boom.

Lily stepped to the right. "The horn of the unicorn, a sacred creature. I call on the Spirits of the Earth to imbibe my circle."

Another heady sweep of magic coated them both.

"The talons of an owl, messengers of the sky. I call on the Spirits of the Air to imbibe my circle."

Lily moved to stand behind Harry now. He felt pinpricks of energy on his skin as this torrent of magic rushed over him. Lily conjured miniature waves from thin air, which hung surreally between her palms.

"The swell of the raging ocean. I call on the Spirits of Water to imbibe my circle."

If anyone had been watching through a window, they might have thought the room had been hit by a sudden hurricane. Rarely, in the history of magical Britain, had a level of magic of this magnitude ever been recorded.

But Lily wasn't done yet. She knelt in front of Harry, and placed a little item on the ground at his feet.

"The Acorn - the power of Autumn," she breathed, tapping the little nut with her wand. She then placed a second totem to the left of the first. "And a head of barley, to summon the heart of Spring."

Lily switched to her other hand,and twirled her wand at it in a complicated motion. "A snowflake, to call to us, the Winter, and a captured sunbeam, the energy of Summer."

The magic now became so intense that as it heaved around Harry, he nearly fainted from the force of it. Then Lily held her hands aloft in front of her, as if in prayer.

"I call upon the Spirits of Alchemy to favour my son, to mark him as an Adept, should they see fit," Lily chanted. She drew two crystal vials from her pocket, one full of a silvery potion, the other of something red, and offered them to Harry, who took them in his trembling fingers.

"I call on Queen Luna, Goddess of the Moon, to bless my child," Lily called out. "I offer mercury, body of the White Queen, and my own blessed power."

She motioned to Harry, who uncorked the first vial, took a steadying breath, and drank the potion in one. It tasted like cinnamon and sugar, which made Harry less skeptical about drinking the second one, which he guessed was something in his immediate future.

"I call on King Sol, Lord of the Sun, to bless my child," Lily cried again. "I offer sulphur, body of the Red King, and my own blessed power."

Harry downed the second potion, which had something of the flavour of liquorice about it. He felt funny. The second potion was like drinking liquid ice. But nothing seemed to be happening. And then ... from somewhere high in the chamber, there was a deafening _snap_ , and a rumble of low thunder ... and then ...

A bolt of fiery lightening streaked down from the ceiling and hit Harry right in the forehead.

Bizarrely though, it didn't hurt at all. Rather, it tickled, like being licked by a kitten's bobbly tongue.

"Well ... is that _it_?" asked Harry, deeply unimpressed. "Did it work?"

"Er, well ... I _think_ so," Lily smiled weakly. She was wringing her hands like a guilty child who had been caught stealing from the cookie jar. Harry frowned at her.

"What is it?"

"Well, you've always liked your pretty face, haven't you?" Lily began slowly.

"Yes," Harry replied, carefully. Where was this going?

"Always been rather pleased that you don't have any spots or blemishes or birthmarks?"

"Mum ...? What are you saying?"

"I'm saying ... this might not be your day."

She reached into her purse and whipped out a make-up mirror that she carried around with her for emergencies. Slowly, reluctantly, she handed it over to Harry, who took it with even greater reticence. He looked in it with a sense of cold dread ... and lost his breath in an angry rush.

For Harry now had a very prominent scar just above his right eye, sticking out stark against his pale, milky skin. It was a scar that looked very much like the _sowilo_ rune ... a rune curiously shaped like a bolt of lightening ...


	12. The Voyage of the HMSS Harmony

"Pan ... you don't _really_ think it's kidnapping ... do you?"

Pan looked at Lyra inscrutably a moment, giving her the time to think it out and answer for herself.

Which she promptly did. "I mean, I didn't _steal_ her, did I? You know, take her against her will, or anything. She came by her own choice."

"Perhaps, but that was a choice heavily influenced by you," Pan pointed out, picking a morsel of something from between his claws.

"Hey, it wasn't _me_ who told her she was going to fall in love in another world," Lyra rebuked hotly. " _I_ didn't say that. I just told her it, passed on the message."

"But you did seek her out in the first place," Pan replied. "You set all this in motion."

"I wanted to meet her," Lyra explained. "You know how we've been watching her progress at Jericho."

"Of course I do, since I was the one you sent to do most of the watching," Pan quipped. "Or should I call it _spying_. I'm coming to think that much of what you do is laced with intrigue and subterfuge. How did I miss you becoming so artful?"

"Because I'm _good_ at all this _subterfuge_ ," Lyra smirked.

"Yes, it would appear so," Pan replied, trying to keep an impressed sort of grin from behind his whiskers. "So ... the CCD."

"What about them?"

"What do you mean ' _what about them_ '!" Pan cried incredibly. "What are we going to do about them? We know they are watching us now."

"Oh, Pan, we knew that anyway," Lyra answered dismissively. "I see no reason to be any more cautious than we already are. At least not until we are ready to go."

"When did Malcolm say he'd be here?"

"As soon as he could, whenever that might be," Lyra sniffed. "Till then, perhaps we should be a bit more cautious. Maybe you're right."

"My my, is that a _concession!_ From _you!_ " Pan snickered. "Hermione must be having a positive influence on you. I take it all back ... let's wake her up and run away right now! At this rate, she might have taught you civility by Christmas!"

Lyra chuckled. "It's good to see you've got your imagination back, Pan!"

"In all seriousness, though, I think we need to start acting like we're here for innocent reasons," Pan went on. "London is far more shady than Oxford. Far more people that could be watching us. We don't want to give them any clue that we're up to something nefarious."

"You're right," Lyra agreed. "I think we need to wait for Mal to get here, have him handle our travel arrangements. He's better at moving about unseen than we are."

"A herd of stampeding wildebeest are better at moving around unseen than we are!" Pan joked.

Lyra laughed back. It was nice, to be sharing humour with Pan again. Lyra hoped he was starting to lighten up, that his chat with Hermione had made him more pliable to her schemes. It would be so much easier without him nagging her conscience all the time. Not that he could help it, seeing as he _was_ her conscience, after all.

"Have you had any thoughts about _how_ we're going to get to the North?" Pan went on. "Like you said, it isn't as simple as just stepping onto any old boat. Have you considered asking the Gyptians?"

"They were my _first_ thought, obviously," Lyra returned. "But I've imposed on them enough for one lifetime. I don't want to bring more trouble to their doorstep. Besides, since Ma Costa died, we don't have many friends left among the water-folk."

"We could contact Dick, he must have his own boat by now," Pan argued. "He might help us."

Lyra blushed. "Yes, maybe ... but I have a feeling his name may also be his _fee_ ... if you know what I mean."

"You are as coarse as heavy-duty sandpaper, do you know that?" Pan snorted, rolling his eyes.

"I've been called worse!" Lyra laughed. "In any case, I'd rather pay for transit with money, rather than my modesty."

"You'd have to _find_ that before you could sell it," Pan sniggered. "So, if not the Gyptians, who then?"

"I'm thinking of going far more conventionally," Lyra confessed. "Hiding in plain sight, you know."

"And how do you intend to do that?"

"Well, once Mal gets here, there will be _three_ of us," Lyra elaborated. "Two adults, one child. I'm thinking a _family_ ticket ..."

"Lyra ..." Pan argued tiredly.

"Hey, it's an innocent plan!" Lyra protested. "It wont raise suspicion. I was thinking we could just book a trip to The Pharaoh Islands or something. The CCD will be expecting us to skulk about in the shadows and take the back roads to the North. That's where they will be looking. I'm thinking we might just be able to sneak right under their noses."

"But we know they've seen us!"

"Ah yes, Pan dear, but they've seen _us and Hermione_ ," Lyra replied smugly. "They wont be looking for a party of _three,_ now will they?"

"I don't think this is going to work, Lyra ..."

* * *

Pan didn't think Malcolm would agree to this foolhardy scheme. In truth, Lyra didn't either. But Mal actually thought it was quite a creative solution to the problem.

Which was both a surprise and a relief to the pair of them.

Two days after arriving in London, Malcolm had arranged for their cabin on a cruise, which would take in Osloe, the Fjords and parts of northern Daneland, before heading out to the Pharaohs.

"The ship is called _The HMSS Harmony,_ " Malcolm informed them, as he, Lyra and Hermione waited patiently at the Port of Teddington, looking for their transport. Hermione was wearing a cute white bonnet with a yellow ribbon that Lyra had bought for her from the haberdashers, to hide her tell-tale bushy hair, and she was holding it down tightly at the brim, to ensure that it didn't get blown away in the gutsy blasts of wind from the Thames.

Speaking of getting blown away ...

"Take this," Malcolm hissed, sliding a pistol into Lyra's hand, which she promptly hid in her jacket pocket. "It's loaded with twelve rounds, and I have more in my trunk. I hope we don't have to use them, but just in case ..."

Hermione swallowed hard as she saw the exchange, then immediately pretended she hadn't noticed, as Malcolm flicked his dark eyes in her direction.

"Er, why is it called the _HMSS Harmony?_ " Hermione asked in a would-be-breezy voice, looking up sweetly between Malcolm and Lyra.

"It stands for _His Majesty's Steam Ship_ ," Malcolm explained. "And there she is."

He pointed to a large vessel moored just at the end of long gangway. It was painted midnight black for the most part, with pumpkin-orange livery in the many windows and also on its three funnels. Malcolm gathered up his suitcase, and Lyra's too, which also contained the few items of clothing that Hermione had brought with her. They had decided that they were just going to buy her a whole new set of cold-weather things once they reached the North. This also added a level of plausible deny-ability to their _family ruse_ , for if they were stopped and searched, it would be far easier to lie their way out than if they were packed to the gills with thermals, snow-shoes and oilskins.

There was an anxious moment during boarding, as a zealous boy, new to the job, tried to query the fake passports that Malcolm had procured for them from his friends at Oakley Street. But Lyra had many arts and skills in her armoury. She stepped forwards, batted her long eyelashes, smiled vampishly, then whispered some words of filth into the boy's ear. He was young, stupid and horny, and powerless against a woman like Lyra, who could list the role of siren as one of her many incarnations.

The witches had taught her well the weaknesses of men.

Then they were unpacking in their cabin as the ship left port. The three of them stood for a pregnant moment looking at the sleeping quarters. There was a double bed, and a settee that folded out to become another single. Lyra blinked at Malcolm, who took a bracing breath.

"You take the bed, Hermione can have the roll-out one," he declared decisively. "I'll find a comfy bit of floor, or bunk down in the bath. Just throw me one of those pillows. You don't need all four."

"Dont be ridiculous, Mal!" Lyra scoffed. "I'm sure we can show enough restraint to share the bed! We are grown adults, after all."

"Yeah ... and that's the problem," Mal replied cryptically, not realising that he was in the presence of a child prodigy in Hermione Granger, who decoded his meaning in an instant, and blushed brightly as she tried to fight off a sudden attack of the giggles. Mal noticed and began to laugh too, which set Lyra off as a result.

"I just don't want to listen to her _snore_ , Hermione," was Malcolm's feeble attempt at an excuse through his warm grin, a sight that thawed Hermione's caution around him. "That's something _you'll_ have to put up with, I'm afraid."

"Do you snore, Miss Lyra?" Hermione giggled.

"Yes, she does. Like a warthog!"

"Shut up, Pan!" Lyra chortled.

After unpacking, Lyra and Malcolm took Hermione up onto the deck of _The Harmony_. She'd never been on a proper ship before, and she decided this was definitely her favourite way to travel. She was in love with it already. She shyly wished that the boy she was _going_ to be in love with could be here with her too. It would have been so romantic to meet in such a way, like something from one of those paperbacks that her father liked so much, but always insisted were her mother's, even until he was blue in the face.

As it was such a nice and warm day there were a lot of people on the deck. Lyra insisted they get some much needed sun, as Hermione was as _milky as the moon_ in her words, so Malcolm went to the bar and ordered two cold beers for himself and Lyra, and an iced lemonade for Hermione. As the adults flopped down into deckchairs, Hermione ambled around close by, sipping her lemonade and watching a couple of older men playing a very bizarre version of chess at the next table.

Now, Hermione _knew_ it was chess, for she recognised the size and shape of the board. She even recognised the funny way that the knight moved around. Only it _wasn't_ a knight. Or, at least, not the kind she was used to. And, as she looked closer, she noticed that it wasn't just the knight ... _all_ the pieces were _very_ strange.

And, her curiosity ever-insatiable, Hermione couldn't help herself.

"Excuse me, I'm sorry to interrupt," she began meekly. "But that is a very unusual chess set, isn't it? I've never seen anything like that before."

One of the men, who must have been nearly seventy, grinned a toothy smile at her.

"No, it isn't, is it?" he replied, his voice the gruff-tenor of an old Norseman. "Do you know what these pieces are?"

"No," Hermione began, before correcting herself. "Well, I know what they _are._ You know, queens and bishops and rooks and things. But I've never seen them made like that before."

She pointed at the board, which was full of small, oval pebbles with different, complex markings etched into them, where a horse, a castle and a row of knobbly pawns should be.

"What are they? And how do you know which piece is which?" She went on, brazenly stealing a seat from a table nearby and plopping herself down for the lesson she felt certain she was about to hear.

"This is a _Runic Chess Set_ ," the other elderly man replied, his voice a croaky crackle. "Do you know what runes are?"

Hermione shook her head in the negative.

"Powerful old language," the man replied. "Language of our Norse gods and heroes."

" _Ah!"_ Hermione exclaimed, fascinated already. "So they are like _letters_?"

"No, not like letters," the first man clarified. "The runes have a meaning, but they are so much more than mere characters. They are _divine symbols_ , and understanding them can take a lifetime."

"Maybe more," his friend added, his eyes alight with fervour. Hermione felt something ignite within herself at their zeal.

"Then, do you know what they mean?" Hermione asked eagerly.

"Of course," the older of the two stepped in. "This rune, for example, _the sowilo rune_ ," he held up a pebble displaying a classic depiction of a lightening bolt etched in gold, "is the rune of the Sun, the most majestic of all runes. So, it fills the role of King on the chess board, as it is seen by many as the _king of the runes_.

"If you ever meet someone blessed by sowilo, stick close to them young maiden, for they will lead you to the light ... a light _they create."_

Hermione hushed in reverently, her breath oddly taken a moment. It was if an important truth had settled within her, and she was determined that it was one she shouldn't forget.

"What about the others?" Hermione pressed.

The older Vyking laughed. "You know what? It would be easier to explain as you play."

He stood up and offered Hermione his seat, as his friend reset the board, lining up his blood red pieces opposite Hermione's silver ones. Once the board was set, the older Vyking urged her to begin."You must start," he grinned benignly. "The _White Queen_ always makes the first move ..."


	13. The Last Days of Annwn

James Potter looked sneakily around, just to make sure there were no Muggles nearby. The coast seemed to be clear, but he sent Harry to the top of what was once a large slag heap to play look-out anyway. The large mound of discarded spill from the old coal mine had been covered over with turf, which was now growing fairly wild and swaying in the light afternoon breeze.

James shouted up to Harry.

"Can you see anyone, son?"

"No, there's nobody here!" Harry called back.

James nodded, then turned to Lily, who was manning the mine elevator shaft.

"Any sign, love?" James asked.

"No, you're good to go," Lily twittered back.

So James, taking one last look just to be completely certain, drew his wand. He turned it to the roof of the owl coop that he was building, the large wooden dome being the last component to be added. But before he cast the spell to levitate it into place, he called up to Harry once more.

"Now, son, do you remember the wand movement I told you for this spell?" James queried.

"Yes, Dad," Harry replied with a child-like grin of zeal. "Swish and _flick_."

"And the incantation?"

"Wingardium Leviosa," Harry returned proudly.

"That's _almost_ right _,"_ Lily corrected from the mine entrance. "But remember, perfect pronunciation is key to effective spell casting. You have to elongate the ' _gar'_ part of _Win-gar-dium_. Make it nice and long when you say it. And put the stress on the _'o'_ in _'Leviosa'._ It's pronounced _levi-O-sa,_ not _levi-o-SAAAA._ Try it again."

"Win- _gaaar-_ dium levi- _o-_ sa, Win- _gaaar-_ dium levi- _o-_ sa," Harry practiced.

"One more time, Harry, and with real feeling," Lily encouraged. "If you say a spell three times you'll never forget it."

"Win- _gaaar-_ dium levi- _o-_ sa!" Harry cried with as much vigour as he could muster.

And, to all their astonishments, the owl coop dome lifted clean off the ground for a few seconds, before falling back to the Earth with a hollow crash. It split the side a little bit. Harry looked down, confused and honestly a little scared, and terribly guilty.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said, rushing down to his father. "I don't know how I .. how I ... how _did_ I?"

James laughed out loud as Harry grew yet more frantic and perplexed, as Lily trotted over to join them.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I broke the roof," Harry moaned. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."

"No harm done, son," James soothed, flicking his wand at the cracked dome and whispering _Reparo!_ There was a puff of magic and the roof was instantly repaired.

Harry's eyes went wide and he jogged over to inspect it. He even took off his glasses for a closer look. But the roof was as good as new.

"Wow ... that was _amazing!"_ he breathed in adulation.

James chuckled and turned to Lily. "I remember the days when _you_ were impressed by my simple spells."

"Well, I sort of _had_ to be," Lily teased. "You were a menace with anything more complex!"

"Hush you," James grinned.

Harry came scampering back to them. His eyes were bright with excitement now that he was relieved of his guilty burden.

"How did I do that?" he asked feverishly. "I made the dome _fly,_ didn't I!"

"It's not all that uncommon," Lily replied, bursting Harry's bubble a bit. "Bouts of accidental magic often happen to young witches and wizards as they approach your age."

James, seeing the way Harry's expression had dropped like a lead balloon, quickly added, "But only the _really_ powerful ones can do it while saying a spell. Other kids just fall out of windows and bounce down the street like a beach ball or something."

He grinned at Lily, who cottoned on quick as a flash. "That's true. I think we must expect great things from you, Harry. After all, even Albus Dumbledore himself cant do wandless magic."

Harry beamed up at his mother, then returned to his sentry post on the slag heap, as James added the wooden dome to the owl coop structure. As soon as he did, Lily went back to the mine elevator and retrieved the cage with the owl in it, which she then brought over to the coop. She lifted the bird out gently, placed her inside onto a nest of fur and feathers, then James used his wand to fill up a little water trough that they had installed near the door.

"So, have you thought of a name for her?" Lily asked, as Harry rejoined them and allowed his mother to slide an arm around his shoulders.

Harry blushed a little. "I found a name I quite liked in the book that Minerva gave to me. But I'm not sure if its the sort of thing you call an owl."

"What is it?" asked James.

"It's Hedwig," Harry replied, his cheeks turning crimson. "Do ... do you think that would be okay for a name?"

Lily smiled down at him. "I think Hedwig is a very pretty name. No, it's a _beautiful_ name. A beautiful name, for a beautiful owl."

"Hedwig it is then," James grinned, as Harry beamed up at them both. But then James' eyes grew heavy with sadness. "You know ... now that we've built the coop ... there's only one thing left to do ..."

Harry swallowed hard and deep. He blinked at his father.

"It's time, isn't it?"

Lily suddenly increased the pressure around Harry's shoulders. He thought she might crush his very bones to dust, but he wanted to feel her near, so had no intention of telling her to ease up or to stop.

James looked back at them, his eyes oddly moist. "When Hedwig is ready I ... I'll send her to Sirius. It will be her first Owl Post delivery."

"No, James," Lily mewled lowly, her broken heart infusing her strained voice. "Can't it wait till tomorrow? Just one more night ... _please_?"

James made the concession. "Okay. One more night. Hey, let's make it a bloody good one!"

And so they did. They played loud music, and ate cake and chocolate, and Lily drank enough wine that by the end there wasn't much _blood_ left in her blood-to-alcohol ratio. But it was okay, because Harry was sure his mother had cried out much of the wine she'd consumed, for she barely stopped weeping the entire evening, no matter how hard she tried to conceal the fact that she was.

And then the dawn came, all too soon for everyone's liking. James had left before any of them were up, and by the time he'd returned for breakfast, Hedwig was probably half way to London already. It was a very solemn last meal that the Potters shared together, as though their unavoidable parting was simply a bad dream that they were all just going to wake up from. It was an unspoken presence, sat with them like an uninvited breakfast guest. But it was this presence that rose first ... and beckoned Harry to follow it with an unspoken command.

"It's ten o'clock," James whispered without looking up. "Sirius will be here at eleven. It's ... time to go."

Lily tried to reply, but she could only make a clutching gasp by way of response, as if a ball of misery had wedged itself in her throat. She got up and busied herself cleaning the plates from the table, as Harry slowly made his way to his room to double-check he'd packed everything. And, in the quiet of his bedroom, Harry had a little cry.

This didn't seem exciting anymore. It seemed dark, and dangerous, and uncertain. And he wouldn't have his Mum to make it all better.

But Harry also knew he had no choice, and the anger of the truth bit at him as he grudgingly accepted it. The Muggles were watching him, were watching _them_. Staying here would only make more trouble for his parents. And Harry _really_ didn't want that. He had to go, and they would be fine and safe, and he'd have Hedwig now to bring him news of them. And Sirius and Minerva would look after him.

It was all going to be okay.

Harry took a calming breath and felt a new sense of courage settle on his heart. His Dad wouldn't be a big old scaredy-cat like this. He was as powerful as a _stag_ after all. No, if this was _him,_ he'd hold his head up high, puff out his chest, and then poke his tongue out at the Muggles as he slipped through their clutches. The vision made Harry laugh heartily to himself as he pictured it in his mind. That's what he'd be then.

All the cleverness and kindness of his mother, all the heart and bravery of his father. He was a Potter ... and he was going to make them proud.

At eleven o'clock the Potters clambered out of the mine shaft elevator and into the late morning sunshine. Harry had chosen to wear his aviator sunglasses again, though it was as much to hide his inevitable tears as it was to deflect the rays of the burning Welsh sun. Sirius was waiting for them, and he took Harry's sports bag of possessions as the two groups met.

"Is this all you're bringing?" Sirius quirked. "Well, this just wont do! We have a big flat to fill with junk, you know. I think a trip to Diagon Alley should be out first port of call. Actually, we _have_ to go there first. You cant go around dressed like _that_ ... people will think you're _strange_."

Harry tugged at his fitted t-shirt and black denim jeans. Then he frowned at Sirius.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" he huffed.

"Oh, nothing ... for _here_ ," Sirius smirked. "In the Muggle world you'd be quite the little heart-breaker. But where we're going, you're going to have to _blend in_. If you walk around looking like that, people will think you're one of those poor sods on an outing from St Mungo's or something. And I think we can all agree that I am _not_ a _responsible adult_!"

James hooted out a laugh, but Lily looked fraught.

"When will Minerva be taking over Harry's watch?" she asked in a strained voice.

"Hey, stop fretting, lil'-lost-Lil," Sirius quirked brightly. "Me and Hazza are going to have a great time. Can I call you _Hazza_?"

"No," Harry frowned. "And I'll ignore you if you do."

James was cracking ribs in his mirth. "That's my boy. Don't take any of his nonsense. It takes a great deal of courage to stand up to your enemies, Harry, but even more to give sass to overly zealous godfathers. You give him hell for your old Dad!"

Harry grinned, and promised faithfully that he would.

And then, the parting.

Later, Harry would recall how wet it was, such was the volume of tears shed by all and sundry. There were a few bone-shattering hugs thrown in for good measure, then some of the longest goodbyes in recorded history, but eventually they all had to bite the bullet and finally, _finally_ go their separate ways.

And Harry wondered just when he'd see his mother and father again.

Sirius' solution to Harry's all-consuming melancholy was to be extra jovial. He whisked Harry away in another swirl of Apparition, which he explained was known as _Side-Along Apparition_ when someone else was doing it for you, and that it wasn't nearly as unpleasant when you were able to do it by yourself. Harry was pleased about that, as he was sure he was now tasting his breakfast for the _second_ time that morning. He rather hoped he'd prefer broomstick travel, once he finally got the chance to have a go at that.

Then they were back in _The Leaky Cauldron_. It was much quieter today, with just a smattering of old warlocks playing cards, and an elderly witch who was sat by herself, muttering about how eleven Sickles for an ounce of beetle eyes was daylight robbery, and suggesting the Apothecary's uniforms should come with a face mask and black and white striped jumpers.

Harry turned to Sirius, to ask him how many Sickles there were to a pound, when he was given quite a shock.

For Sirius had wrapped his head in a quite ridiculous purple turban. Harry giggled as he looked at him.

"What _are_ you wearing?"

"It's my disguise," Sirius replied, his voice muffled through the fabric, which covered his entire head except for his eyes, which poked out and gave Sirius the look of an Oriental assassin.

"Why are you in disguise?" Harry asked.

"Well, I'm still wanted for the murder of your parents," Sirius explained. "And thirteen other Muggles, who died in a gas explosion that unfortunately happened at the exact same moment. I'm still not convinced that was a coincidence. But I cant prove anything."

Harry gasped. "So ... you think someone _was_ trying to kill my parents that day?"

"Like I said, I have no evidence, I cant prove a thing," Sirius replied darkly. "But I have a theory. One day, when you're a bit older, I'll tell you all about it."

Harry recognised a dismissal when he saw one, so dropped the dozen or so other questions he'd lined up to ask about this. He filed them away for now, in that drawer in his brain marked _Things I Have To Ask About My Past But That No-One Wants To Tell Me Yet._ He'd only known he was a wizard for three months, but already this drawer was fit to burst.

But there were still some questions he _could_ ask. So he fired one at Sirius.

"So, why the turban?"

Sirius gave a muffled guffaw. "We get lots of international witches and wizards who visit us. Lots of them wear headdresses and certain Scottish sects of the Church of Merlin insist on them as part of the religion. No-one will ask any questions about my look."

"But what about the _smell_?" Harry pressed, wrinkling his nose. "You _stink_ of garlic!"

"Oh, _that_!" Sirius laughed. "I got the idea from a very odd wizard, Quirinus Quirrell. He teaches Defence Against The Dark Arts at Hogwarts, you know. Apparently, he went off to research some vampires for his class and one of the lady vampires took a liking to him. Now he's terrified that she's going to come back one day and bite him and make him her mate. So _he_ goes around wearing a turban stuffed with garlic, just to ward her off.

"So, I decided to copy him. Go all in. _Go hard or go home_ , as the saying goes."

Harry shivered. "Are ... are there such things as vampires, then?"

"Oh yeah," Sirius returned simply. "I've met some. And, between you and me, _I_ wouldn't mind getting a _love bite_ from one of those smoking hot vampiresses ... if it wasn't for the whole sprouting wings and drinking blood thing afterwards. Maybe I'll try it when the Healers at St Mungo's tell me I have a terminal disease ... there would be worse ways to spend my death, after all!"

Sirius laughed deeply, but Harry was entirely sure if he was joking or not.

After a quick bacon sandwich and a pot of tea, Sirius led Harry back onto Diagon Alley. He explained as much as he could about the place as they strolled through the sunshine.

"Most of your shopping will be done here," Sirius went on. "Though most places do owl-order stuff too. You'll have to come here for your wand, though, because Ollivander will have to do tests and assessments to match you up with the right wand."

"Cant I just use any old one?" Harry asked.

"Well, you _can_ ," Sirius expanded. "But you never get quite so good results with another wizard's wand. Best to have your own. But you can only get one within a month of your eleventh birthday."

"Just before I go to Hogwarts, then," Harry nodded in understanding.

"That's right," Sirius confirmed. "So just put wands and potions from your mind for the next six months. We wont be going anywhere near them."

"But we can go near brooms?" Harry asked hopefully.

"We certainly can," Sirius grinned back. "Look down there."

They had come to a stop at a junction of several other streets, that wound off in all directions from where they were standing. Sirius was pointing to a large building that looked like an aircraft hanger.

"That's the Fizzick Alley aerodrome," Sirius explained. "It's an indoor Quidditch Centre, really - has James told you about Quidditch at least? Thank Merlin for that! - and, when you've settled into the new flat a bit, we'll go there and I'll teach you to fly like a demon. All this _no-first-years_ on the House Quidditch teams nonsense ... I intend to bend Minerva's ear for the next year, so she will bend the rules for you."

"But what if I'm not any good?" Harry pointed out reasonably. "What if I'm hopeless on a broom, like my Mum?"

Sirius looked down in surprise.

"Lily ... _hopeless on a broom_ ... who told you that?"

"My Dad," Harry confessed.

"I should have guessed," Sirius chuckled. "James always was _insanely_ jealous that Lily was so much _better_ at flying than he was. He only tried out for the Gryffindor Quidditch team because he wanted more time to try and chat her up to get her to going out with him, and _she_ was already the House Seeker. But she thought he was such a wart back then, and eventually she had enough of his outrageous flirting and quit the team to get away from him!"

Harry laughed himself silly at that. That was something to tease his father about next time they met. He turned to Sirius once his giggles had subsided.

"So, what are these other streets?"

He nodded at the other snaking thoroughfares that wound away into the distance.

"Well, this one's _Knockturn Alley_ ," Sirius began. "You get all sorts of weird shops down there. Lots of Dark Arts stuff, but mostly the young Goths just use it to be all morose and misunderstood."

"And what about this one?" Harry asked curiously, nodding to the final corridor, where a few witches, who Harry really thought should be wearing a bit more clothing, were hanging out of red-lit windows and swooning down to wizards in long trench-robes, as they hurried by underneath.

"That's _Immore Alley,"_ Sirius replied, somewhat evasively. "And _you_ wont be going down there until you are at least seventeen. If you're a very good boy till then, I'll take you there myself as a sort of _rite of passage_."

And with that, Sirius steered Harry away before he could ask any more questions.

Then they came to one final building. It was snowy-white and towered over the assortment of little shops that flanked it on either side. Standing guard at its burnished bronze doors, bedecked in a uniform of scarlet and gold was a ...

"Yep, that's a goblin," Sirius replied, as Harry's stunned expression asked the burning question for him. "So you'd be crazy to try and rob the place."

Harry had to agree. They walked down the cavernous hall. More goblins on either side of the wide gangway weighed out huge rubies, counted piles of gold and silver coins, and traded with alchemists for an array of other precious metals. Sirius guided them to a spare goblin.

"Morning," he said brightly.

"How can I help you?" the goblin replied, his swarthy eyes roaming Sirius' turban, as he angled his nose away from that stench of garlic.

"Professor Albus Dumbledore of Hogwarts has sent me to deposit something in his vault, number seven hundred and thirteen. It's the one guarded by the dragon, you know."

"I know," the goblin replied gruffly. "Do you have Mr Dumbledore's key?"

"Yes. Here it is," said Sirius.

He slid over the golden key, the end of which was shaped like a phoenix spreading its wings. It had small rubies for eyes, which caught the light as the goblin inspected it under a microscope.

"That seems to be in order," said the goblin, returning the key to Sirius. "Follow me. I will take you there myself."

Harry followed Sirius and the goblin to a conveyor belt of carts at the end of the great hall. It looked like the sort of thing you got into before going on the ghost train at the funfair. But the ride was more akin to a wild rollercoaster. The cart heltered and skeltered along a network of underground rails, past a vast lake that bubbled and churned as if something was awakening within its depths, and around huge cathedrals of stalagmites and stalactites. Harry never could remember which one was which.

And then they arrived at the vault. Harry was eager to see the dragon, but it kept itself hidden in the shadows, which Sirius said warningly was the best place for it. But Harry was even more keen to see what Sirius was going to stash in the vault. What could be so big and powerful and important that it needed a _dragon_ to guard it?

But all it was was a grubby little package.

It was small enough to fit inside your coat pocket. It was wrapped in newspaper, _French newspaper_ , at that, which was _sort_ of interesting. But Harry had been expecting, and hoping, for something far more exciting.

"Don't be deceived by what your eyes tell you," Sirius replied somewhat cryptically when they were back out in the sun, and Harry was complaining about the anti-climax of their Gringotts ride. "There is always more than meets the eye in the magical world."

He just left the words hanging there and Harry, far from being disappointed in what had happened, was now hotly curious about what his godfather had just hidden in vault number seven hundred and thirteen.


	14. A Splitting Headache

One morning there was a unusual smell in the air, and _The HMSS Harmony_ was moving differently in the water. Instead of the plunging and soaring Hermione had become used to on the open ocean, there was an altogether more subdued sort of rocking motion, a bobbing and dipping as gentle tides swept under the large vessel.

Hermione changed quickly and was on deck before either Lyra or Malcolm were awake. She stared hungrily at the land, which was a very strange sight after so many days at sea. She looked around at the harbour of Trollesund, with it's sloped-roofed houses, the boats and cranes loading fish (which accounted for the pungent smell on the air), and the gulls swooping and circling around the tall dome of the oratory spire near the jetty.

And after just acquiring her sea legs, Hermione found she was quite keen to become a land-loper again.

Just then Papageno broke out of the water as a leaping salmon, only to transform into a tern in mid-air and fly right up to Hermione's shoulder. He had been enjoying exploring various fish forms on their journey North, and he would miss the swimming now they were land-bound again.

"How's the water?" Hermione asked, stroking Pap's breast plume as he shook himself dry on her arm.

"Freezing," Pap replied with a chattering beak. "Be sure to wrap up as warm as possible when you leave the ship. Dont want you to catch a chill and die, not when your _master of fire_ is still a whole world away and unable to warm you up."

Hermione blushed at that, as the girlish thrill ran through her. She stoically believed she was still too young to consider herself in love, especially as she'd not yet met the boy who would be the object of this undying affection. But every time she flicked her mind to him, even the _idea_ of him, her heart did funny little flips, and her belly joined in. too.

It was as though a swarm of multi-coloured moths had taken flight all through her.

But she pushed that away for now, as she thought Pap would laugh at her for it. So she made her way back to the cabin and helped Lyra to pack up her few things and a short time later Malcolm led them off them ship.

The first port of call - after the port itself, of course - was the Quartermaster's stores on the Quayside. This ramshackle trading post was stocked full of all the thick, cold-weather clothing Hermione would need. So while Malcolm went off to make contact with the Witch-Consul, Lyra took Hermione for a fitting, emerging an hour later with her apprentice clad from head-to-toe in seal skin boots, fluffy fox-hide undergarments, wolf pelt jumpers and coats, and a cute hat and scarf combo that felt distinctly ermine in it's softness.

"Thank you," Hermione mumbled humbly. "I'm sorry you had to pay so much. I promise I'll give it back."

"Nonsense," Lyra beamed. "It was worth it to see how cute you look in everything. How does it feel? Are you warm enough?"

She reached over and tenderly tucked Hermione's scarf closer to her neck.

"Well, I feel _rounder_ than I've ever been," Hermione mused, patting her new bulky padding. "You'll have to keep a close eye on me, Miss Lyra, because if I fall over I'm quite sure I wont be able to get back up again without help!"

Lyra laughed and pulled Hermione in for a one-armed hug. "Oh don't worry, Hermione, I wont let you out of my sight now we're in the North."

"Where will we go first?" Hermione asked eagerly, as they began walking through the harbour.

"Malcolm is trying to make contact with the Witches of the Northern Clans," Lyra explained. "I have an old friend, Serafina Pekkala _,_ who will help us I'm sure. And if know _her_ as I do, I would bet my London apartment that she already knows we are here."

Hermione frowned at that. "But, Miss Lyra, why _are_ we going to see the Witches?"

"Because, sweetheart, they have magic and know better than anyone how to cross the barriers between worlds."

"I thought you said that Dr Polstead had built a portal up here?" Hermione queried. "Aren't we using _that_ to cross the worlds?"

"No, _Mal_ didn't build it, he was just an advisor on it," Lyra explained. "You see, in order to open a doorway between worlds, you need a tremendous release of energy, one that is enough to shatter the barrier between them. The method the bastards at the Magisterium use to get that energy is known as _intercision._ It is the most efficient ... and also the most heinously unpleasant. _"_

"Why?" Hermione pressed. "What is intercision?"

Lyra and Pantalaimon shared a dark look, inspired by an even darker memory. It caused an icy prickle along Hermione's skin as she watched that flare of understanding pass between them. Then Lyra turned her haunted expression back to her apprentice.

"Intercision is a _cut_ ... one that separates human from dæmon."

Hermione cried out in horror at the very notion. Papageno wormed his way down Hermione's top, to press himself as a vole tight against the warm flesh over her rapidly beating heart. She clung to him firmly there, as if hoping to exorcise the very idea of _separating_ from their collective memory.

"How ... how can they _do_ that?" Hermione whispered fearfully. "That's just the most _awful_ thing!"

"It is," Lyra nodded in agreement. "It is the most terrifying thing to face, Hermione. I truly hope you never have to."

Hermione snapped her head to Lyra in marrow-deep pity and shock, as she suddenly interpreted that look between her Mistress and Pantalaimon.

"You! They did it to you?!"

" _Nearly_ ," Lyra clarified. "We were even _in_ one of their infernal cutting machines. Divided, kept apart by an anbaric cage ... that _blade_ coming down at us ..."

Pan may have been on the larger side as dæmons went, but this didn't stop him leaping up into Lyra's embrace, as they relived this most _hated_ of memories. Hermione felt her heart bleed for them, with them, just as powerfully as it was hammering in resistance to the idea of Intercision.

For what a chilling idea it was! To be split from her Pap, her heart, her love! ... it was like cutting off half of _herself_. She couldn't even imagine it. Of course, like all children, she and Pap had tried it out, seen just how far he could go away from her before that soul-deep ache became too much, and he came racing back as a baby gazelle and dived into her waiting arms ... arms shaky with the heart soreness of the attempt.

But to think of him just being _sliced away_ ... it made them both whimper as the thought crossed their minds at the same time.

"W-what happens to the people? After the intercision?" Hermione breathed lowly.

"They live for a little while, but they are shells more than people, really," Lyra explained. "Most die within a few years. Some don't last more than a few hours, especially if they are _young_."

Hermione clutched at Pap again, pressing him as close to her aching breast as she could. The concept was almost too much to bear.

"So, was someone ... _intercised_ ... to open this portal with Dr Polstead?" Hermione mumbled.

"No, Oakley Street aren't in business of ritual sacrifice," Lyra breezed back. "But ... there is _another_ way. And that's where the Witches come in."

"How?"

"Well, you see, it is possible for a human and dæmon to separate _without_ intercision," Lyra elaborated. "And the Witches do it by _choice_."

Hermione sucked in another shocked breath. "But why? Why would _anyone_ want to do that?"

"There are benefits to splitting in this way," Lyra went on. "It can give you a great advantage to be able to send your dæmon far away. It is the most god-awful, painful and miserable thing, but you don't die, and it can be useful."

Hermione blinked as she looked at Lyra, and tried to bring her ragged breathing under her control.

" _You_ ... and _Pan_ ... you can separate!" Hermione hushed.

Lyra nodded her confirmation, and Pan turned his eyes up to Hermione, as Pap poked his head out from Hermione's coat and whispered into her ear. It sparked a memory that made Hermione's eyes go very round indeed.

"Oh ... _now_ I remember! We've _seen_ you before, Pan!" Hermione cried. "We used to see you in the trees around the gardens of Jericho! Were you ... _watching_ us?"

"Yes, I used to ask him to do that," Lyra confirmed. "We had heard a _lot_ about this brilliant young girl from the town, you see. All the teachers and tutors at Jericho Prep were talking about her. And Magdalen Girls College was very interested in offering her a scholarship, to study atomcraft or anbarology. But we wanted to have the brightest girl in Oxford working with us, so we just wanted to see what you were like, that's all."

"Then ... did you come to see me _on purpose_ ... that day we read the alethiometer?"

Lyra nodded. "I did. I thought it was finally time to meet you. And as you were having a look around Jordan College on the Open Day, it seemed too good an opportunity to miss."

"And how lucky it was that you found me!" Hermione beamed. "For if you hadn't, I'd have never known about this boy I have to save and we wouldn't be here in the North!"

"It was very lucky, indeed!" Lyra laughed.

"But, Miss Lyra?" Hermione frowned suddenly. "You said the Witches can split from their dæmons, too? How?"

"There is an initiation they must undergo," Lyra explained. "A test. The Witch must enter a special place and endure the separation from her dæmon. Only by experiencing that pain can they earn the true heart-felt love when it comes back to her, and she is granted her witch-powers."

Then Hermione swallowed deeply. "And the voluntary separation is enough to break the barriers between worlds?"

"Yes," Lyra nodded. "It fact, it was a witch who helped Malcolm to break the barrier with his little machine."

"What was her name?"

"Unusually for a witch, this one was a _he_ ," Lyra replied dramatically. "Not only that, but he arrived here from another world in the first place."

"He did!" Hermione gasped. "How?"

"He was studying a very interesting ancient archway in his world, with a sort of _curtain_ separating it from somewhere else," Lyra explained. "It was very old, and no-one in that world knew how to work it any more. So, because he was very courageous and brave - and a little bit of a stupid adventurer - he decided he would step through it just to see what would happen."

"And he arrived here!" Hermione exclaimed in wonder. "What happened to him?"

"Well, after he had a bit of an explore of our world, he decided he missed his friends and family too much, and wanted to go back home," Lyra explained. "So we decided to help him get there."

"How do you know this? Did ... did _you_ meet him?"

"Yes, I did," Lyra blushed. "You see, he was wanted for a _serious_ crime in his world, one that he had to make look real, but didn't actually commit. And, luckily, our friends at Oakley Street found him before the Magisterium did. And, after a few years, they decided to help him get back and didn't tell me about it.

"I was very cross about that. For he _was_ dashing and brave and adventurous. And very _handsome_ , too."

"You were _lovers_!" Hermione giggled.

"We were," Lyra confirmed with a blush. "And very _passionate_ ones, too. I missed him acutely when he went away. And his dæmon, for she was the shaggiest, fluffiest black dog I'd ever seen. I don't think we have anything like that in our world. I didn't know he'd been used to open Mal's portal until just a few months ago, when my friend, Charlotte, told me all about it.

"She was _confessing_ to me, you see, for _she_ had _also_ been lovers with this exotic man, while he was with me. I stopped being sad about him going as soon as I knew that. He was _quite_ the womaniser, apparently."

Hermione giggled girlishly again. "What was his name?"

"Sirius," Lyra huffed. "Sirius Orion Black!"

"That sounds like the name of a sort of man who enjoys a lot of ladies!" Hermione twittered again. "So, he had to separate from his dæmon to get home?"

"He did," Lyra confirmed. "For, you see, in his world, his dæmon was _inside_ him, not external, like Pan and Pap and everyone else's we know. My very _first_ lover - the boy I _still_ love to this day - was called Will, and his dæmon was like that. For a while I wasn't sure that he even _had_ one, but then we had to go to the World of the Dead to save my friend Roger. That's when I separated from Pan - and it was the _worst thing_ ever - but Will was just as upset, even though he couldn't see or talk to his dæmon.

"But then, we went to _another_ world again, one where he could see her. And I met her. She was called Kirjava. I do miss them so very terribly."

"Even now? After all this time?"

" _Always,_ " Lyra sighed sadly.

Hermione could only listen open-mouthed to the tale, trying to process the drama and heartbreak of it. It was incredible to even conceive of such adventures, let alone to be with the woman who went on them, as Hermione embarked on one of her own. But there was a seed blooming in the back of her mind, and a leaden coil writhing in her tummy, as a prospect she didn't want to face was becoming clearer in her mind.

She knew she had a big challenge ahead of her ... she just hoped - with all she could hope _with_ \- that it wouldn't be what she feared.

"So, this Sirius person separated from his dæmon and created the portal?" Hermione muttered. "Then used it to get to his world?"

"Correct."

"But how did he know that was where he would go?"

"Because he was a witch or - as they are called in _his_ world - a _wizard_ ," Lyra explained. "And he knew lots of magic, the kind of magic Witches in this world didn't know how to do, or had forgotten. But he knew how to disappear in one place, then reappear somewhere else, just by _thinking_ about it. So he tried to do that to get home. It must have worked, because the portal opened and people have been back and forth a few times."

"They have?"

"Oh yes," Lyra replied simply. "In fact, the current Witch-Consul is from that other world. He's helping the Witches here get more of that old power. If you ask _very_ nicely, maybe he'll tell you all about it."

"Oh I do _hope_ so!" Hermione shrieked excitedly. "That sounds so _interesting_!"

"Just remember to address him very politely when you speak to him," Lyra reminded her, as they stopped outside the Witch-Consul's hut. "He is very touchy about things like that."

"What's his name?"

"Why don't you tell me?" Lyra grinned. "The plaque with his name on it is just over this door."

Lyra wiped the snow from a heavy, rather weather-blackenedgreen plaque with silver lettering. Hermione stood on tie-toe, squinted her eyes and read,

"Dr Thomas Marvolo Riddle _..._ Consul to the Witch-Clans of the North."


	15. A Placing of Pieces

December swept into Britain, bringing with it a whole series of new and exciting experiences for Harry Potter. He'd spent much of the previous couple of months marvelling at the slow changes in the colours of the leaves, the way the Thames was growing darker and more chilled-steel-like in hue, and how the air just _looked_ a little duller, as the sun began to set earlier and the evenings started to draw in.

And within all these interesting changes to the world around him, Harry was most astonished by one ever-curious factor - _the weather_.

For down in Annwn, where Harry had spent the last decade, the environment rarely changed. Giant boilers heated the city, air conditioning regulated the atmosphere, and everything that could be controlled and monitored simply _was_.

So the first time that Harry Potter was _rained_ on was quite a startling experience.

Now, he was expecting it to be _wet -_ after all, he wasn't _totally_ thick - but he wasn't prepared for how cold it turned out to be. Little icy bullets hitting his exposed head and neck every couple of seconds was quite the shocking thing. It didn't help that there were hailstones mixed in with the raindrops, or that it was a flash shower and that he didn't have a hood or an umbrella to save him from the assault.

That wasn't a mistake he was keen to make again in a hurry.

So that night, he huddled up in front of the fire with Minerva, who had made them both a mug of steaming hot chocolate, prepared a platter of custard creams, chocolate fingers and Scottish Shortbread biscuits, then prepared to teach Harry how to play chess, while he dried off and watched the steam rise from his sodden trainers.

Only this wasn't _normal_ chess ... for the pieces could _move_.

At first, Harry jumped up in surprise, as the horse of his knight - that he tried to move in the traditional way - actually _bit_ him, when he accidentally squeezed his head too hard.

"Ouch!" Harry yelped. "Aunt Minerva ... my knight just tried to _eat me_!"

Minerva grinned at him over the rim of her spectacles. "Well, it's a good job he wasn't _this big_ then!"

And with that, she flicked her wand at the offending piece ... which suddenly transformed into a version which was about _five-feet-taller_ than the little piece Harry had been playing with. He rolled away to stop the powerful horse from trampling him with his massive hoof.

"Wow!" Harry yelped in wonder. "Why did you _do_ that, Auntie!? You nearly killed me!"

"Oh stop being such a drama queen, Harry!" Minerva chortled. "I am merely practising. This is my first year as Transfiguration Professor and I am out of habit when it comes to life-size transformations. The Headmaster has asked me to produce a full-sized chess set for a quirky game he is planning to play. Merlin only knows why. But that's Dumbledore for you. He always has been a funny sort of wizard."

"Why would anyone want a giant chess set?"

"Who knows?" Minerva replied. "But Dumbledore likes to play games. He probably wants to invite some friends to play, and they'd all have to take the place of a piece on the board or something. That would be quite fun, actually. I'll have to build that instruction into the enchantment."

Minerva aimed her wand at the horse, whispered a spell, and the knight returned to his normal size again. Harry moved back to the board and sat cross-legged behind his pieces

"So, Aunt Min, how do I move the pieces, if I cant touch them? I don't want the Bishop to poke me with his staff, or something."

"You just tell them where to go," Minerva explained.

"And if they wont?" Harry asked.

"Then stop playing, because you're obviously a poor chess player!" Minerva quirked. "Wizard's Chess pieces are like horses - they know when you're not suited to playing with them and they'll bolt at the first sign of trouble!"

"Deserters!" Harry growled murderously at his pawns, who had all thrown down their arms and refused to move. "Can I have them shot for sedition?"

Sirius laughed deeply as he suddenly span out of the fireplace and emerged in front of them. He dusted his jacket down as he righted himself, ruffled Harry on the head, then moved to the mini bar he'd set up and poured himself a large whiskey.

"Wizard's Chess getting you down?" Sirius chuckled. "I was never a player myself. Well ... at least not a _chess_ player!"

Minerva tutted and gave him a pitying sort of frown. She was still brushing soot from her robes. "You've never quite mastered the art of Floo Travelling, have you?"

Just then, Harry started to guffaw quietly behind his hand. Minerva quirked a look at him.

"Did I say something funny?"

"Yeah," Harry giggled. "You said _foo_ ... you know, like _foo-foo_ ... like a girl's _private_ bits!"

"What I actually said was _floo_ ," Minerva corrected with a grimace. "My accent may be quite thick, but your sense of humour is just as difficult to understand!"

"He's _ten,_ Minnie Muck Gee," Sirius smirked at her. "Give the kid a break."

"l'll give _you_ a break - preferably of an arm or a leg - if you call me ... _whatever_ it was you just called me ever again!"

"You never minded when we called you it at school," Sirius reminded her.

"That's only because I never _heard_ it," Minerva replied silkily. "Either that or you'd just _forgotten_ to attend my class again."

"I'll have you know I was perfectly punctual," Sirius argued in mock hurt.

"Yes, but only to your _dates_ , with whichever poor witch you were torturing with your attentions at the time," Minerva quipped back.

"You make me sound like a serial womaniser!" Sirius barked out in a laugh.

"I am suggesting nothing," Minerva fired over coolly. "Simply pointing out that the school nurse had to give out so many salves to remove _love bites_ that we thought we had a plague sweeping through Hogwarts. Either that or an outbreak of vampirism."

Harry giggled at that, as Sirius simply shook his head in faux disgust at the slur.

"Where have you been, anyway?" Minerva demanded, changing the subject firmly.

"Hogwarts," Sirius explained, folding down into a recliner near the fire and kicking off his silver buckled boots. "It's a Hogsmeade Weekend, isn't it? Albus thought it might be easier to deliver his little vanity mirror while half the students were up in the village."

Minerva rebuked him with a stern glance. "The Mirror of Erised is no _vanity mirror_ , Sirius."

"Then what would _you_ call it?" Sirius queried. "What did it show _you_?"

"Oh, no, you don't get that sort of jump on me, Black!"

"Oh come on, Min!" Sirius urged, flicking his eyebrows up and down suggestively as he added, "I'll er, _tell you mine if tell me yours!"_

"Do lines like that work on _any_ witch for you?"

"More than you know, but a wizard never tells," Sirius laughed. "So, come on."

"Not on your life," Minerva frowned.

"What are you talking about?" Harry interjected, utterly bewildered. "What's this mirror?"

"Dumbledore's latest curiosity," Sirius replied, sipping at his single malt. "He has quite a collection of such things now. I'm expecting an announcement any day soon - _Albus Dumbledore, revered Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has retired after eighty years in education, to open the Magical World's version of Ripley's Believe It Or Not! It's called Albus' Little Shop of Horrors!"_

Sirius then laughed at his own jokey comment for a full minute.

Harry turned to Minerva, hoping for a sensible answer. "What is it?"

"It is a Mirror that shows whoever looks into it their _heart's desire_. But it gives neither wisdom nor truth, merely visualises the thing that a person desires the most."

Harry thought this was pretty cool, but was now hotly curious to know what his Godfather had seen in the mirror. So he asked him.

"Me?" Sirius quirked. "It seems a little unfair, as Minerva wont share _her_ s, but I have no issue. I saw myself, on a cloud made of money, surrounded by a gaggle of busty, leggy witches, who were wearing nothing more than a feather boa and a smile. Oddly enough, it was the _same_ thing I saw in a club on Immore Alley once, when James and I celebrated graduating Hogwarts. Only, don't tell your mother I told you that, Harry. It was James who provided the money."

"So, _that_ 's why they had to live with Lily's parents for the first year!" Minerva cried. "I did wonder."

"Yeah, James' old man wasn't best pleased that he'd frittered away a Trust Fund for James' first born that he'd set up. Sorry, kiddo."

He grinned at Harry, who couldn't decide whether to be cross or not. "So, why wont you say what _you_ saw, Auntie Min?"

"Such things are best kept private, Harry, or at least limited," Minerva replied. "Information like that can be manipulated into weapons to use against you, or else drive you mad in search of ways to make them come true, or to understand where they came from in the first place. Men and women have wasted away in front of the Mirror. They become obsessed by what they see, wondering if it is real or even possible. They focus on the dream, and forget to live."

"What does Dumbledore even _want_ it for?" Sirius asked. "You know how cryptic he's becoming. He doesn't tell me anything these days, apart from when he's asking for more socks at Christmas."

"I really don't know," Minerva confessed. "Did James say anything? He did store the mirror here for months, after all."

Harry felt his heart slam upwards and lodge in his throat. The mirror... that first day ... he'd _seen_ it! He pulled back the confusing memory ... the ghost girl holding his hand? His _heart's desire_? What was that supposed to mean?

"Earth to Harry? Have we lost you to the moon?"

Sirius was chuckling again, but Minerva seemed more concerned.

"Harry? What is it? You've gone very pale. Have you seen a ghost?" she asked in her worry.

"No, at least, I don't _think_ so," Harry muttered mutely. "I don't know ... maybe."

"You aren't making any sense, kid," Sirius learned over. He looked attentive now, too. "What is it?"

"It's this mirror you are on about," Harry began. "I ... I think I saw it. That night we all first met here. I came for a look around and ... it was here."

"And did you look in it?" asked Minerva.

Harry nodded.

"And what did you see?" Sirius pressed.

"I ... I," Harry stumbled, immediately understanding Minerva's reluctance to make her _own_ confession about her mirror-vision. She was staring at Harry so firmly, though, that he knew his own silence was not an option. "I saw ... _myself_ ... but I wasn't alone."

"No?" Sirius queried. "Go on."

"There was a girl there with me," Harry began. "And she had _all_ her clothes on, before you ask! But ... she was _holding my hand!_ It was weird, because I could almost _feel_ her there next to me. I know you're going to say I imagined that part of it, but I swear to you I didn't. It was like she was right next to me, but at the same time a million miles away. In a different world, even."

Something flitted over Sirius' expression a moment that wasn't concern or anxiety, but something else that Harry didn't understand. But it was gone as quickly as it arrived, gone so fast in fact that it made Harry question whether he'd seen it at all.

"Can that be possible?" Harry ploughed on. "Was it like that for either of you?"

The matching looks of puzzlement gave Harry his answer in about three seconds flat. This wasn't normal, clearly, and Harry shuddered in his new discomfort. Seeing, hearing - and especially _sensing_ \- things that other people couldn't was never a good sign ... not in _any_ world.

"It _wasn't_ , was it? Please tell me."

"No, it wasn't, kiddo," Sirius replied. "But maybe you're just hyper sensitive. Maybe there _was_ a ghost with you at the same time, who happened to stand in the same spot as the girl in the reflection. What did she look like anyway? Was she pretty?"

"I ... I don't know," Harry blushed, as his Godfather smirked teasingly at him. "I couldn't really see her face. But yes, I think she _was_ pretty. I sort of ... _knew_. That sounds weird, doesn't it?"

"Not at all," Sirius quipped happily. "If a pretty girl wants to hold your hand, that's something to be smug about. I should know!"

"Even if she's a ghost?"

" _Especially_ if she's a ghost!" Sirius boomed. "Think of the benefits. You get all the companionship of a girlfriend, but you don't have to meet her parents, or buy her expensive presents, or take her on dates, and there's no chance she can trap you by getting up the duff. That's why _my_ favourite girlfriend was a ghost."

" _You_ had a ghost girlfriend?" Harry quirked with a grin. "When?"

"At Hogwarts, for five years," Sirius revealed with a wide smile. "Longest relationship I ever had. Though, to be honest, I'm not sure if she _knew_ she was my girlfriend. We never used the word, just in case it all got a bit heavy, you know. She used to haunt a girl's bathroom, not a fan of _big long snakes_ ... which would have been a _serious_ barrier to our love, you know, had we been able to, er, _get physical."_

Sirius chuckled loudly to himself, while Minerva scowled at him in disgust.

"You really do have all the charm, wit and sophistication of a Dementor after a head-swap operation," Minerva sniped. Then she turned to Harry. "I wouldn't fret too much about this. I imagine it is just that side of you that yearns for companionship beginning to emerge. It seems perfectly understandable."

"It does?" Harry asked in hope.

"Of course. You, who have never known friendship with those of your age, can think of no greater fulfilment than the chance to put that right. And there will never be a friendship more fulfilling than a _romantic_ _relationship._ You are very young, and at your time of life the idea of such things is abhorrent. But that will change, it always does as you get older. And romance is a beautiful and wonderful thing - if you take one lesson from me this year it will be that your Godfather's view of things is the most vain, vacuous, self-absorbed, arrogant -"

"Hey ... you are listing all my best qualities there!" Sirius teased. "No, look here, Harry. Minerva is right. Romance is lovely, I should know - I've been in love with _myself_ for years! And look how happy _I_ am!"

Harry smiled weakly as Sirius burst into peels of laughter again. "But, does this mean I just _want_ romance ... or that this girl is the one I'm going to have a romantic relationship _with_?"

"I would guess - based on that fact that you didn't see her face - that no, it wont refer to someone specific," Minerva mused. "I could be wrong, of course, but perhaps it just gave you an _ideal_ , a template possibly, of the sort of girl you will be attracted to, when you start to feel such things"

"Well, she _did_ have a lot of hair," Harry replied thoughtfully. "I've always liked thick hair. My Mum has bouncy hair when she grows it out. I always liked smoothing it."

"There we go then!" Sirius barked in triumph. "Just be on the lookout for a girl with bushy hair. Just try and make sure she has a bit of cash behind her before you fall in love ... your Dad _really_ did screw you over on that score when we were eighteen!" 


	16. Dr. Thomas M. Riddle - Witch-Consul

Malcolm was in deep, amiable conversation with Dr Riddle when Lyra and Hermione entered the Consulate Office. Dr Riddle's dæmon - who was a large anaconda called Nagini - seemed to be funning with Asta, Malcolm's dæmon, at their feet. She was entertaining the thickset cat by seeing how far her forked tongue could shoot out from her jaws, and whether Asta's paws were quick enough to playfully swipe at it.

So far, Nagini was winning.

Dr Riddle stood to welcome the two ladies as they entered his office, pulling up chairs and pouring them mugs of steaming tea, which was an unusual blend that was grown out in the tundra and mixed with the lichen and mosses that could be found in those regions. It gave the tea an earthy, bitter sort of note, but Hermione found she quite liked the unusualness of it. The tea was exotic, made her think of things _other-wordly_ and stirred an excitement about where they were going next on her adventure.

Then there was Dr Riddle himself, who was a fascinating specimen of a man. He had a _very_ unusual complexion, pale for the most part but not exactly white. It was a sort of _emerald_ _green_ , but so pale in hue that it was only after a very close look that the colour became visible at all. But, once noticed, it could not be unseen. Hermione was enchanted by him ... how could a man get _green_ skin? Unable to contain her curiosity - and forgetting all the propriety Lyra had warned her to observe - she simply blurted out the question during a lull in the conversation.

Lyra bristled, Malcolm shook his head in admonishment, but Dr Riddle seemed perfectly jovial and at ease.

Hermione decided she liked him very much.

"It is an excellent and very valid question," Dr Riddle began in his disclosure. "And one few seem to ask. As much as I appreciate the respect intended, I _am_ different. To not notice such a thing would be truly ignorant of the observer. And I am very pleased to see this young lady not only perceives the world around her, but also has the courage to attempt to understand it. Where I come from, Miss, courage is a truly vaunted virtue."

Hermione blushed and beamed at Dr Riddle for his validation of her. His voice was a little scary - almost a _hiss_ as much as speech - but his glowing words quickly made Hermione forget all that. In fact, it only stoked her curiosity more.

"So, do you mind explaining how you came to look as you do?" Hermione asked respectfully. "I would really like to know."

"It would be my pleasure," Dr Riddle hissed.

The more he spoke in this manner, the more Hermione grew used to it. She reckoned that if she listened long enough she wouldn't even hear it as a hiss anymore. It would simply be an exotic accent. That settled the last of her nerves about him. 

"You have been told, I'm sure, that I am not originally from this world?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes. Lyra, here, told me."

"I'm sure she did," Dr Riddle simpered towards Lyra, who seemed very unsure of the Witch-Consul. Pan and Asta were muttering furiously under Mal's chair and Hermione wondered what might have gotten them so animated, but she didn't have time to question it as Dr Riddle began speaking again. "Well, did she also tell you that, in _my world,_ dæmons are in fact _internal_ , and we don't see them at all?"

"She did," Hermione confirmed. "And I just cant imagine what that would be like. To not have my Pap close to me, to talk to, would make me very sad, I think."

"Indeed," Dr Riddle confirmed. "It is a huge advantage of this world to have such a blessing. To have one's very _soul_ anchored and possibly even _separate ..._ to advise and guide and assist. What a wonderful thing that is."

There was a trace of something darkly reverent, almost envious in Dr Riddle's tone. A sort of resentful malice that didn't seem in keeping with his general pleasant demeanour. It caused Hermione to falter a moment, but then the old joviality returned.

"So you see, it wasn't until I found myself in this world that I knew of such possibilities," Dr Riddle smiled, revealing oddly sharp-pointed teeth. "I was injured, barely clinging to life. Little more than shadow and vapour rather than a living, breathing man. Luckily, witches of the Northern Clans found me, nursed me back to health and told me about this wondrous place.

"I resolved to stay, then, and to offer my service to the Witch Clan as payment for their mercy in saving me. They were in need of a new Witch-Consul, as the incumbent man was old and sick, so I agreed to take on the position.

"However, in order to become part of this world - and to avoid suspicion from others - I had to endure the Witch Trial. It brought my dæmon to the surface, and I saw her for the first time. It was an agonising experience, not only to bring Nagini into the open, but also to separate from her at the very start. And the process ... _changed_ me, too, in the physical alterations you can see. The cost of becoming part of this world, from the limited one I left. The pain in my heart I shall never forget. But, it was the correct choice, for all the benefits outweigh the sacrifice I made."

"You think it was worth it, then? The separation?" asked Hermione, her perspective tempted to change by Dr Riddle's admission.

"Oh yes, very much so," the Witch-Consul replied eagerly. "I would recommend it to anyone. You lose none of the deep connection to your dæmon, and while there _is_ a period of hurt and melancholy, the joy of reunion more than makes up for it. And the net result is the swathe of benefits that being separated brings. Why more people don't engage with the process baffles me. I feel _more_ whole now than I ever did in my previous life."

"Wow," Hermione blinked, digging her fingers into Pap's trembling fur to still him. This sounded intriguing, and if it wasn't as bad as Dr Riddle said, maybe it wasn't such a frightening thing after all.

And in that moment, Hermione Granger thought it might be quite the brilliant thing, to become a witch. She wondered if it would suit _her_. She rather thought she might like to _try_.

Dr Riddle turned to address Malcolm once more, to resume their previous discussion. "So, Dr Polstead, you were saying about applying for a transit visa to the Polar Observatory?"

"Yes," Malcolm confirmed. "I was there, you know, when the gateway was opened, and I am welcome back any time. I consider it one of the greatest achievements of my life's work, and I wish to show my ... _wife and child_ ... the reason that I was away from them so, so long during its construction."

Dr Riddle turned his thin eyes to his guests and surveyed them intently.

"A _family_? I would never have guessed," Dr Riddle sneered. "Your _daughter_ doesn't look very much like either of you."

"I adopted her when she was very young," Lyra cut in briskly. "She was my niece's - the poor girl fell accidentally pregnant on her first teenage birthday. I agreed to take Hermione as my own, so the girl could live her childhood. Mal and I married some years later. Ours is an ... _unusual_ family unit, but the bonds between us are strong."

Hermione opened her mouth, as if to argue, but then her breath caught shockingly in her lungs. For Pantalaimon had stealthily approached and actually _touched_ her hand! Rubbed his head up against her fingers, where they were dangling at the side of her chair. The breach of this unspoken, most-intimate of barriers silenced Hermione where she was.

And she understood immediately. There was something _not right_ about Dr Riddle and his dæmon! She hadn't noticed the violation Pan had committed by touching her. _Every_ dæmon Hermione had ever met would have been alerted to it, as though a rend had been made in the very fabric of the air itself. Something was wrong here. And Hermione noticed then that Mal had made up a story about being married to Lyra, and Lyra had immediately jumped on it and embellished the tale, with a false history about a non-existent niece.

Then it struck her. _They were trying to deceive Dr Riddle_.

Hermione couldn't understand _why_ , but that wasn't important. All that mattered was that they _were_ , and Hermione had been on the verge of undermining it! Pan had _no choice_! He partook in this willing break of established social etiquette to _silence_ _her_ , before she gave their ruse away. Hermione may not have understood what was going on, but she was nothing if not loyal.

She trusted Lyra, she was starting to trust Malcolm, too. They were in this together. And if they wanted to hide something from this Witch-Consul, it was her job to play along, so they could get from him what they needed.

Hermione cleared her throat and turned to Lyra. "Mummy - can I go out and play by the harbour? It's ever so stuffy in here with all these furs on. Please can I?"

Lyra flicked her head to Hermione. Her eyes glazed over a moment, as though they were melting for some reason, but she gathered her wits about her quickly.

"Okay, sweetheart, but don't go out of sight of the window," Lyra swooned back. "No further than Pap can get back, if he needs us to come and rescue you from Slavers or Tartars!"

"Okay, Mummy, thank you!" Hermione beamed. She leapt up, swooped down to kiss Lyra affectionately on the cheek, then darted out of the door into the cold air.

It was only when they were clear away from the Consulate that Pap emerged from Hermione's jacket, became an Arctic fox, and turned to Hermione in deadly seriousness.

"I cant _believe_ Pan _touched you!_ " Papageno gasped out.

"He _had_ to, Pap! I nearly did something very silly!" Hermione cried shrilly.

"I know. But I thought _kissing_ Lyra was a _bit_ much."

" _I_ had to!" Hermione shrieked. "I had to make the scheme look convincing. I nearly ruined the whole thing. I had to make amends."

"She liked that a lot. Did you see how she smiled when you did it?" Pap began cautiously.

"No, I didn't," Hermione admitted. "But I think she likes a bit of affection, that's all. Her eyes are so sad most of the time. It was nice to see a bit of life in them. Odd that a hug and a kiss from _me_ did that, but it was still nice that she was happy for a second."

"Maybe she always wanted a child of her own," Papageno mused.

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, we had to pretend to be a family to get onto the boat, now Lyra's made up a whole story about adopting you," Pap pointed out. "Her stories are all the same. I know Pan said Lyra's not as imaginative as an adult as she was when she was a girl, but even so. In all of her ruses she plays a mother ... _your_ mother."

"But I already have a mother," Hermione frowned in her puzzlement.

"Yes, but Lyra doesn't have a _daughter_ , does she?" Pap went on. "And now she's looking after _you_ , which is like _pretending_ to be a Mum."

"What are you getting at, Pap?" Hermione asked briskly. "If you have a point, come to it quickly."

"I'm just saying, perhaps we shouldn't be so _familiar_ with Lyra," Pap argued. "If she secretly wanted to have a little girl of her own, but _couldn't_ for whatever reason, she might be living that life now. With _us._ We don't know what that might mean, or what she might do."

"You aren't making a lot of sense!" Hermione scowled. "Where has this suspicion come from? Lyra has been nothing but nice and lovely to us since the beginning."

"Yes, exactly ... _the beginning_. Where she found us, happily let us use her illegal truth-reader, told us you are going to fall in love, and _now_ she's taking us across worlds. She said herself that her long lost love is in another world. How do we know she's not just _using_ us to get there?"

"A-are you saying ... that you think she _lied_ to us?" Hermione asked in a tiny voice. "Do ... do you think I _wont_ fall in love?"

Her voice was so needy and heartsick that Papageno became an ermine again, to wrap comfortingly around Hermione's little throat.

"Of _course_ I think you'll fall in love," Pap soothed. "You have so much love _to give_ that lots of people will probably fall in love with you, and you will fall back in love with one of _them_. I just don't know why that has to be with a strange boy in a far off other world. But Lyra told you _that_ , and it turned your head on a sixpence. And now I can see that she lies very easily, and we know adults always have their own agendas. I just wonder if she's lied to _us_."

"Who else has lied?" Hermione queried, trying to stop her heart from sinking at the very real possibility that Papageno was utterly right, and that they'd committed to a journey that might not be about _her_ at all, might not even be based on _truth_ at all. It was enough to make her sick with worry.

"That Witch-Consul lied," Pap began darkly.

"About what?"

"About his dæmon, for a start."

"What about her?"

"She isn't a dæmon at all - she's a _real_ snake!"

" _What!"_ Hermione gasped in shock. "How could you tell?"

"She didn't smell right," Pap explained. "And not only that, but _she_ had a dæmon, _inside_ her. Just like Dr Riddle. Their dæmons are _still_ internal - they are just pretending they're not."

"But why?"

"I don't know, but I think that's what Mal and Lyra are trying to find out, because Pan and Asta knew as well. I could tell."

"Or maybe they just want to make contact with the Witches, and get us to them, without letting on to Dr Riddle that they know the truth about him," Hermione mused worryingly. "Oh, Pap - this is so _confusing_! Why do grown-ups play these sorts of games with each other?"

"I don't know, but I think maybe _we_ should learn how to play," Pap replied lowly. "It's too late to turn back now, but at least we can be prepared going forward."

"But who can we trust, Pap?" Hermione moaned. "I so _like_ Lyra and Mal."

"We trust each other, as always," Pap returned stoutly. "We stick together, and when we know more, we can decide what the truth is. Then we can make a final decision on who to trust or not."

"Okay. But Pap, I'm still going to find my Mr Potter," Hermione declared firmly. "I don't know if anything we _think_ is true anymore ... but _that_ ... it just _feels_ right. I have to see it through now."

"I know, and I agree," Pap smiled supportively. "And I'll be right here with you when you do."

"Come on," Hermione huffed pointedly as she stood up. "Let's go back to the others ... and see if they've all quite finished _lying to each other_ yet."


	17. If The Broom Sticks - Fly it!

A three-carriage tube train eased into the abandoned Brompton Road station and the doors opened. It was indistinguishable from standard Tube stock, aside from the shining gold livery on the handrails and a seat moquette featuring a dragon, a unicorn and the house colours of Hogwarts. The classic roundel on the carriage doors was the same, the same lady voiced the tannoy announcements, and these trains were just as crowded as any on the world's oldest underground transit network.

The only difference was that these trains carried _magical people_ , rather than their harassed Muggle counterparts.

Tube trains on the Piccadilly Line may not have stopped at Brompton Road for some time, but the Wizarding World had it's _own_ line on the underground network. If it was on a map, it would be coloured in gold. It was called _The Merlin Line_ and ran not only through central London, but connected to an underground rail network that spanned the entire length and breadth of Great Britain.

Harry didn't know this, of course, but there was even a secret connection to the line that ran straight to Annwn. If he so wanted, it would be quite the easy thing to take a trip back home.

But right now, Harry and Sirius were heading in the other direction. When the train arrived they hustled and hurried to get on, squeezing into a corner of the carriage where Harry could see one of the overhead maps, so he could track their journey. Next to the map was a poster for the latest _Weird Sisters_ album, information about an upcoming Celestina Warbeck concert at the Diagon Palladium, and moving signs warning Londoners to _Mind The Gap._

Then the train began to move off. A voice came over the tannoy. _"The next station is ..._ _Knightsbridge. Change here for Harrods Department Store and Paul Daniels Magical Toy Shop. This is a Merlin Line train to_ _Immore Alley."_ Harry watched out of the window as the train hurtled along, leaping past other trains and even shooting through crowded stations. Nobody seemed to notice them gunning past, but Sirius didn't seem too concerned, immersed as he was in a copy of _The Evening Standard,_ that had been left by another commuter.

"Er ... Padfoot," Harry began, using the codename Sirius had given for him to use when out in public. "How come nobody can see us going past?"

Sirius turned his ridiculously turbaned-head on him. He looked even sillier today as he'd covered his eyes with a ski-mask, to make him look even _less_ approachable.

"Well, Harry, Muggles don't notice magic unless they look really hard," Sirius began. "And even then they will try anything to disprove it. If they _do_ spot anything, they explain it away as a trick of the light, or the wind changing direction, or other such nonsense. Some wizards even leave the magical world to become entertainers for the Muggles, just to see how far they can push the limits of Muggle disbelief."

"Really?" Harry asked, fascinated.

"Oh yes," Sirius replied, turning the page of his newspaper. "There is a famous magician in Las Vegas - that's in the USA - who regularly _flies_ during his shows. He even walked _through_ the Great Wall of China once. The Muggles all come out of his shows asking _how does he do it? -_ but they will accept almost _anything_ but the truth - which is that he actually _does_ the things they see with their own eyes. Good luck to him, I say. He's made a fortune from a basic Levitation Charm. You'll learn how to do that in your first _month_ at Hogwarts!"

"I'll make things _fly_?" Harry asked, then he remembered suddenly. "Oh, is that _wingardium leviosa?"_

Harry couldn't see Sirius' face, on account of the mask and turban, but he could almost imagine his eyebrows shooting into his coiffured fringe.

"How do you know about that spell?" he queried.

"I ... sort of ... _did it_ ," Harry explained shyly. "When my Dad was building the owl coop outside Annwn. Ooh, that reminds me, I haven't replied to my Mum's letter this week, she'll be so cross with me! Anyway, my Dad was demonstrating the spell when he floated the roof onto the coop. I was trying to copy the wand movement and say the magic words properly, and I concentrated _really_ hard and the roof just went up a little bit. Not much, and only for about three seconds, but I did it!"

He couldn't help but sound pleased with himself.

"Well, if _that's_ the case, our little trip out today should be a doddle for you!" Sirius laughed deeply.

Harry grinned widely to himself. Sirius was taking him to the aerodrome, where he could start teaching him how to fly. Harry was bouncing on his heels with the excitement. Learning to _fly_ ... doing some _actual_ magic! He couldn't wait.

All week he'd been peppering Sirius with requests for hints and tips, and information on Quidditch, the big sport in the magical world. In the end, Minerva got so fed up with the barrage of chit-chat around the flat, that she returned one day with a book she'd checked out of the Hogwarts library, called _Quidditch Through the Ages,_ which was a fascinating read and had the dual bonus of shutting Harry up for a good few days.

There was only so much you could get from a book, though, and Harry was now eager to get on with the business of gaining _practical_ experience.

Harry and Sirius left the Merlin Line at Fizzick Alley station and emerged into the bitter wind of late December London. This was a fascinating street and Harry quickly saw that it was a little bit like a magical sports village. There was a Gobstones Play Centre, little cafés full of angry Wizard's Chess sets eager to enter into battle, and a huge auditorium right in the middle of it all, that Sirius informed Harry was the _Fizzick Duelling Arena_ , where this years' World Championships would be held just after Christmas.

"If you're a good boy, I might try and blag tickets for the Grand Final," Sirius went on gleefully.

"As a Christmas present?" Harry asked hopefully.

"Oh no," Sirius replied with a gleam in his eye. "I've already got you _that_. In fact, I think I might just give it to you early."

With that he reached into his jacket and pulled out what looked like a shiny, polished twig. Then he drew his wand, whispered a quick spell, and the twig was magically resized ... to a slick, gleaming _racing broom!_

"Merry Christmas, kiddo!" Sirius beamed, offering the broom to Harry.

"F-for _me?_ " Harry mumbled. "I cant ... this looks very expensive."

"Oh it was," Sirius laughed happily. "But I'm rich as all hell, so don't worry about it."

Harry blinked at the broom. As much as he wanted to be modest and humble, he really _wanted_ this broom. He had fallen in love with it at first sight.

"Is it really mine?" he hushed in astonishment.

"It sure is," Sirius grinned. "Top of the range, too. Not due to go on general sale for another few months. But I know a guy, who knows another guy, and _he_ knows a guy, who went to see a man about his dog. I got it from him!"

Harry didn't understand any of _that_. All he was interested in was the burnished handle, the perfectly cut tail-twigs, and the words _Nimbus 2000_ that were stamped into the hand-grip. It was beautiful and even Harry, who had never seen a magical broom before, could appreciate that.

"Well, are you going to make love to the broom with your eyes all day, or are we actually going to go in and fly the thing!"

Harry nodded and allowed Sirius to guide him further along the street, towards a sky blue dome at the very end. It was huge, and had moving images of witches and wizards zooming about on brooms, of synchronised flight displays and, of course, Quidditch moves being practised. Harry looked up and read the sign on the giant awning.

" _Hooch and Hardbroom's_ _Magical Flight Centre_ ," he recited.

"Or, as it's more commonly known - _The Big Blue Tent!"_ Sirius derided.

"Who are _Hooch and Hardbroom_?" Harry asked, as Sirius opened the door for him.

"The proprietors of the centre," Sirius explained. "Rolanda Hooch teaches first-year flying lessons at the beginning of the Hogwarts term, and acts as referee for Inter-House Quidditch matches. She used to play Beater for the Holyhead Harpies team, you know. And Joy Hardbroom is an international champion in broom air-dancing and synchronised flying. She works for Ethel Hallow's Witches Preparatory College in Jericho, Oxford when she's not here."

Sirius led the way through to the Reception Area. He and Harry deposited their coats, paid for use of the practice airspace, and made their way into the giant arena.

And Harry promptly forgot how to breathe.

For the place was _enormous._ Over to the left was a full-sized Quidditch stadium, a dome-like structure with enough tiers for forty thousand spectators. Harry could just about see the top of the central fifty- foot high scoring hoop. It wasn't in use today, but it was the home arena for the _Farringdon Fliers_ , the local team who played out of London, and their club banner was fluttering merrily away on a large pole near the turnstiles to the stadium.

Off to the right were a series of smaller structures. These were little more than oval-shaped mounds, about thirty of them, and each mound was reserved for use by individuals or small groups. Harry quickly understood that they were practice patches, where new or inexperienced fliers could build up their confidence, before moving to a huge space in the middle, which was awash with brooms and their riders, some doing tricks and turns, others creeping along and holding onto an invisible rail at the side.

All in all, it was like the magical world's version of an ice rink.

Sirius led Harry to one of the smaller mounds that was free at the far end. They entered through a door made of the same netting that divided each practice patch, and Sirius instructed Harry to put the broom on the floor, which he promptly did.

"Now," Sirius began, rolling up the sleeves to his garish purple shirt. "What we are going to start with today is basic broom command. This is just to see how adept you are at broomstick control."

"Okay," Harry nodded. "Is that important, then?"

"Of course," Sirius replied. "A broom is an enchanted object. It will interact with your own magic to complete a sort of _magical circuit,_ if you like."

"Oh, I get it," Harry pondered. "So it needs a bit of my magic to work?"

"Exactly," Sirius confirmed. "And _through_ your magic you can issue it commands. Such as to fly in the first place."

" _Ahh_!" Harry exclaimed. "So if a _non-magical_ person picked it up, it wouldn't fly at all? It would just be like a normal broom?"

"Well yes, apart from the fact that it has a seat, dragonhide hand-grips, and cost about the equivalent of a high-powered sports car!"

Harry gulped. He didn't want to think about the price of the broom at his feet. He almost didn't want to try and fly it, in case it turned out he was utterly rubbish at flying and broke it at the first attempt.

Sirius seemed to sense Harry's reticent turn and grinned to try and reassure him.

"Dont fret, kid, we will just take one thing at a time. Up at Hogwarts, your entire _first lesson_ will be about getting the broom to trust you, before you can even think about flying."

"And how do you get a broom to _trust you_?" Harry asked sceptically. He didn't think he liked the idea of a magically enchanted object that could think for itself. He rather thought you shouldn't trust something if you couldn't see where it kept it's brain.

"You have to _command it_ ," Sirius went on. "Be relaxed, not fearful. _Feel_ the energy of the broom, _offer_ yours out to meet it halfway - almost like you're _bowing_ to it in respect - and then just say, _UP!"_

Sirius had held his hand over the broom, which jumped right into his waiting grip as he spoke the last word. Harry went wide-eyed at the display of magic before him.

"Wow!" Harry whispered. "That was _brilliant!"_

Sirius grinned at that. "If you liked _that_ , watch _this!_ "

And with that he flung his leg over the broom, kicked off from the ground and soared up into the air. Harry whooped in joyous excitement as he watched Sirius lean forward, then shoot off like a human dart in a fast lap or two around the practice patch. He returned to Harry then, dismounting with the grace of a gymnast and placing the broom at Harry's feet.

"Wow! That was amazing!" Harry crowed.

"Your turn then," Sirius beamed. "Merlin - I do _miss_ flying. Now don't feel bad if you cant -"

"Up!" Harry yelled.

To Sirius' immense surprise, the broom leapt up first time. Unfortunately, it also surprised Harry, too. The broom missed his outstretched hand completely ... and whacked Harry hard in the face. His glasses took the brunt of the impact, but he did get a nasty wallop to the forehead for his trouble.

"That wasn't _funny"!"_ Harry snapped crossly, rubbing at a nasty bruise between his eyes, as Sirius doubled-up with laughter next to him.

"Are you sure?" Sirius panted through his chuckles. "You didn't _see_ it!"

"Can you fix my glasses?" Harry frowned.

"Pass them here," Sirius replied, drying his eyes. He took out his wand and tapped them to the frames of the glasses, which were repaired in a puff of magic. "There ... hold on ... what's _that_?"

"What's _what_?"

"That!" Sirius cried, pushing back Harry's fringe to look at his forehead.

"Oh _that_ ," Harry replied, quickly brushing his fringe down shyly. "That's nothing."

"It isn't _nothing_ ... it's a _scar._ "

"I know," Harry moaned. "My Mum she ... did a sort of _ritual_ with me. It produced a bolt of lightening, which hit me right there, where the scar is. I don't know why, but it wont go away. It's so _ugly_ , isn't it? Do _you_ know how to remove it?"

"No, and I wouldn't if I did," Sirius muttered, examining the scar closely. "Scars can be very useful, you know. Dumbledore has a scar above his knee that it is a perfect map of the London Underground. It came in very useful when the Merlin Line was being built. It helped the magical engineers avoid the other Tube lines."

Harry perked up at that. "Is _my_ scar useful like that, then?"

"It could well be," Sirius pondered. "Do you know ... it looks like -"

" - the Sowilo Rune. Yeah, that's what my Mum said. The ritual was to see if I was an Alchemy Adept. Whatever that is."

"And _sowilo_ responded? To the ritual?"

"Y-yeah," Harry stuttered. "Is that ... _good_?"

"It could be _very_ good," Sirius grinned. "It's certainly very interesting. Have you shown this to Minerva?"

"No, I'm a bit embarrassed about it, to be honest."

"Dont be," Sirius cajoled. "A blessing by Sowilo is something to be _humbled_ by. Just ask Minerva."

"Does she know a lot about this then?" asked Harry eagerly.

"A lot? She knows more than almost anyone!" Sirius cried. "She was the Ancient Runes Professor until this year. She wrote the _textbook_ for the course!"

"Really!" Harry whispered. "I'll have to ask her about it later. But first, I want to try flying again."

He placed the broom down with purpose, held his hand over it again, and ordered the broom into his hand.

It went willingly ... as though it were it's _right_ to be there.

Sirius looked just as surprised this time as he did the first. Harry ignored his warnings, as he hauled his leg up over the broom, took a steadying breath and kicked off from the ground. He swept into the air in a rush of wind, feeling it as it flapped through his hair. This was _wonderful_! He had found something he could do without trying! Maybe he wouldn't turn out to be such a useless wizard after all.

Harry zoomed around and around the practice patch for the best part of the next hour. Sirius clapped and whooped and eventually hired his own broom, and he and Harry raced each other. But the Cleansweep Four was no match for the Nimbus, and Harry won every time.

By the time they left _Hooch and Hardbroom's_ Harry was bright-eyed and alight with vigour.

"That was _brilliant_!" he sang, as they made their way back towards the train station. "Can we come again next week?"

"We sure can," Sirius beamed back. "Tell you what, next time we'll pop into _Quality Quidditch Supplies_ first and pick up a set of Quidditch equipment. I thought you might be the build for a Chaser, Harry, but you move so fast on that broom ... you're a _natural_. I knew Charlie Weasley - best flier I ever saw - but I think you might actually be _better._ "

"And was _he_ a Chaser?"

"No ... he was a _Seeker_ ," Sirius explained. "And I think we might try and focus on that for you. We'll do a bit of training ... I wont have to bribe Minerva to let you onto the House team for next year, after all ... she'll have no _choice_ but to pick you. You'll be that good. Besides which, she told me that Gryffindor just played Slytherin last week ... and got absolutely _flattened_ by them. And if I know Minerva, she will be just _dying_ to get revenge on old Snivellus Snape next time round ..."


	18. The Spangled Ring

It was late when Hermione woke. Or was it early? It wasn't easy to tell this far up North, where the daylight hours were short and life just seemed to go on regardless of the pervading conditions outside. Either way, Hermione was awake. In truth, she hadn't really been able to sleep at all.

There was a rusty gate leading into the back yard of Einarsson's Bar, which was directly opposite the cheap, bunkhouse room Mal had rented for them, and the constant wind played with it all night. Every thirty seconds or so the tell-tale creak would shriek out into the air, followed by the crash against the wall of the building, or with the chain-link fencing around the yard.

Against such a persistent din, Hermione found sleep impossible.

So she lay on the hard, lumpy bed, pulling the crusty blanket tight around her for warmth, and just drifted into another of her daydreams. Papageno was asleep at the foot of the bed, otter-formed again, and he wouldn't be able to tease her for being so _girly_. So she was safe to continue.

For Hermione had found herself doing this a lot over the last week or so. Just relaxing her mind and indulging her whimsical romantic side, which seemed to be growing inside her like an ever-inflating balloon. She put it down to being eleven now, and that extra digit must mean she was growing up.

When she was ten - no fewer than a couple of months ago - she would never have even had the slightest thought about boys. It would never have occurred to her to want to hold hands with one, or to spend time alone with one, or to want to meet one on a boat and be swept away by him, as she went off on a great adventure.

But now, such thoughts were becoming more and more common. And, of course, there was only _one_ boy in these curious daydreams of hers.

Hermione often thought she could _see_ him, if she pulled her mind's eye into tight focus. Not really his _face_ so much, but more of his build and his personality. It was this, more than anything, that told her heart that he was real, that Lyra _hadn't_ lied about him. Whatever else she might be planning for this journey, the boy in the other world was _real_ , the danger he was in was true, and Hermione was _going_ to find and help him, and he'd fall in love with her just for that.

The thought made Hermione so mindlessly giddy that when she closed a fist around her pillow to offset her excitement, it was so tight that it left creases there when she finally let go.

The Potter boy - which was the name she'd given him - was slight and wiry, Hermione sort of knew that. And he could run as quick as a whippet. She often imagined him racing through high-stalked corn fields on a sunny day, or pelting along the side of a canal or, which was the strangest image, running through a dark city where the lights were being switched off, as if he were racing the oncoming gloom itself.

 _That_ didn't make a lot of sense but, Hermione reminded herself, she was making all of this up anyway. But some parts of it had that ring of truth that she couldn't ignore. It was almost as if the universe, or maybe Dust itself, was giving her just a taster of the boy in her future. It wasn't blatant or obvious, but just enough to whet her appetite, and keep her spirits up against the doubts Papageno had pushed into her mind.

And speaking of rings ...

Hermione was letting her mind wander, this time to a story-book romance, where she met the Potter Boy on the shores of a Great Lake. They were sat under the shade of an ancient cedar tree, watching a large whale or squid bask in the warm shallows nearby. The boy was curled up, dozing with his head in her lap, while her fingertips gently traced an unusual scar on his forehead. He was telling her the story about how he got it, and how she was the only one he'd ever let touch the scar tissue of that most sensitive bit of his skin. They had their own castle, which was high up along sloping lawns, and had many turrets and towers, which looked pretty with the windows all lit up.

And then, Hermione saw a very _different_ type of light.

At first, she struggled to define it in her mind. She remembered a hymn she'd heard once, which described something as ' _spangled'_ , and this was sort of like that. It was circular in shape and had a sparkle about it, a churning, twisting type of prettiness that Hermione found very pleasing to look at, as it surrounded the images in her daydream.

But that's when the sensation _changed_.

For as she tried to look at it, on the periphery of the castle in her mind, she realised with a jolt that the spangled ring was _in_ her mind. It framed the scene she was picturing, as though she were looking at it on one of Lyra's special photogram plates. And with the realisation came a shock of nausea and light-headedness. It caused Hermione to close her eyes and rub furiously at them, as she fought against the wave of sickness flooding her gut.

"What is it?"

The sudden turn in her condition had awoken Papageno, who bounded up the bed to sniff anxiously at Hermione's ear.

"I ... I don't know," Hermione whimpered back. "There was ... _something_ ... I don't know ..."

She had to retch to hold her sickness at bay. Pap tried to ease Hermione's hands away from her eyes.

"You were daydreaming ... about _him_ again, weren't you?"

Hermione's eyes snapped open in the shock. "How do _you_ know?"

"Are you really that silly, to think I _wouldn't_ know?" Pap quirked. "We are _one,_ Hermione. Your thoughts are _my_ thoughts. I know full well what you think about, when you convince yourself that I'm not looking."

Hermione blushed in the darkness. "Then I wont think about _anything_ ever again!"

"Don't be prissy, of course you will," Pap admonished. "And you can start with thinking about what you saw. What was it?"

"Did _you_ see anything?" Hermione fired back. "Was that what woke you up?"

"No, it was your sudden sickness and panic," Papageno explained. "But I did _feel_ something as I was dreaming."

Hermione sat up fully. " _You_ were dreaming? I didn't know you _could_. How do I not know that?"

"You've never asked," Pap replied fairly. "But I _can_ , so now you know."

"So what were you dreaming about?"

"I was dreaming about the day I settle," Pan returned quietly. "About what I might be when I do."

There was a pregnant pause between them. They had discussed this issue before, and for both it was a contentious point, a mix of curiosity and illogical anxiety. It was _going_ to happen, they couldn't prevent it, but it would mark a sea-change in their lives, and because of that there was a part of each of them that was wary of the approaching moment. Pap's final form would define much of Hermione's personality, and she wondered how that would manifest.

"So ... what _were_ you?" Hermione asked softly. "Was it an otter?"

Pap shook his head. This was the form that _both_ expected him to take, so it came as a surprise to Hermione to hear his denial.

"I was a cat," Pap confessed after a moment. "A big ginger cat with bandy legs. I've had the same dream a few times lately. I wonder if it means I might settle soon, and if that's what I'll be."

"I don't think I considered you as a cat," Hermione pondered thoughtfully. "What do you think that says about _me_?"

"That you're loyal, but also free-spirited and independent," Pap replied faithfully. "But _notoriously_ difficult to please!"

They shared a laugh together as they considered the truth of it.

"Would you _like_ to be a cat, do you think?" Hermione asked as they calmed down.

"It isn't a case of what I would like to be, Hermione," Papageno considered sagely. "We wont get to choose such a thing. I will be as nature ordains."

"That really doesn't seem fair, does it?" Hermione mused. "I think we _should_ be able to pick a form for you. Who decided that we cant? I want someone to complain to."

"Er ... that would be _The Almighty_! Or, failing that, Mother Nature, herself."

"Well, _she_ should know better!" Hermione huffed. Then she blinked in a rustle of anxiety. "Do you _really_ think you'll settle soon? We're too young, aren't we?"

Pap shook his head. "It's different for everyone, isn't it? And girls often settle earlier than boys. You remember Jenny Slocombe? Her dæmon settled last year, didn't he?"

"Oh _yes_ , and he was a little fox," Hermione recalled. "So, do you think it might happen for us soon?"

"I don't know if it will be _soon_ ," Pap replied. "But things _are_ changing. I have noticed, over the last six months or so, that it's different when I sit on your top half ... a bit more ... _bumpy_ , than it used to be."

Hermione flushed furiously and pulled the blanket up over her chest in her embarrassment. Pap just shook his head at her. He had seen her naked a million times before, when she showered and changed and things, so this sudden jolt of humility was really a bit redundant as far as _they_ were concerned. Hermione seemed to realise that in the same instant, and eased the covers back to their previous position.

"So, you think we _are_ changing?" Hermione whispered.

"We both know _that_ ," Pap replied. "But we just have to be ready for when the big change happens. I wonder if this thing you saw is part of that?"

"I doubt it, otherwise everyone would know about it, and we'd have heard about it before now," Hermione considered. "No, this was something else."

"Describe it," Pap pressed.

"It was like a ... well, a ring of light, really," Hermione began. "It was sparkling and shimmering, sort of the way that light dances in soapy water. You know, when it goes all the colours of the rainbow. It was like that, but it was moving all around the scene I could see in my mind."

"Was it _showing_ you that, do you think?"

"It ... it _could_ have been," Hermione mused. "I mean, it didn't _feel_ like I was dreaming, but it didn't feel like it was real, either. It was sort of, like -"

" - seeing what _could be_."

Hermione looked up, and pulled the blankets back up immediately. For Malcolm was speaking to her from across the room. She hadn't noticed he was still up, sat in an easy chair by the moonlit window, looking out towards the harbour. Hermione gulped when she saw his rifle on his lap, catching what little light was flickering from the streetlamp outside. His dark features were fixed on the street, his thick hands gripping the rifle firmly, just in case he needed to fire off a shot in a hurry.

He made Hermione feel very safe, unshirkingly watching over her and Lyra as he was.

"Was that what your vision was like?" Malcolm asked plainly.

"Yes, it was _just_ like that," Hermione replied. "How do you know?"

"I've had the same thing myself," Malcolm confessed. "And, to answer your query, _no_ ... it isn't something all people see as they pass through adolescence. In fact, until you just said it, I've not known anyone else who's experienced it. Apart from _me_."

Hermione sat up fully and pulled her knees under her chin. "So, do you know what it is?"

"I used to think of it as my personal aurora," Malcolm replied, somewhat distantly. He was looking out of the window, perhaps hoping to see the _actual_ aurora above the lights of the town. But it was a foggy night tonight, and the Northern Lights were hidden above the cloud deck. "I never knew completely what it was. But I've come to think of it as something that helps me and guides me, shows me the right way to go when I need it."

"Is it Dust?"

"Yes. Yes, I think so."

"But how is that possible?" asked Hermione. "Dust can only be seen through special photograms, cant it?"

"That's quite right," Malcolm confirmed. "But Lyra, over there, is quite bright, you know ... when she's not snoring like an Arctic Seal, of course! And she helped me to understand that Dust can affect people in different ways. I just have a sensitivity to it, my brain is wired in a way that allows Dust to manifest for me in ways it doesn't for others.

"And now, it seems, it's doing the same for you. Don't ask me how. I just know that is _does_. My advice would be to not fight it. Let it in, and see where it takes you. Dust spans the entire universe, and all the worlds within it. If it wants to show you something about this boy we are going to look for, _let it_. He is obviously important in some way, and that means _you_ must be important enough for Dust to want you to know about him, and then to reach him."

"Me? Important?" Hermione hushed shyly. "I don't think I'm _important_."

"Well of course you are," Mal declared staunchly. "Lyra wouldn't be here if she didn't think so, and I learned long ago to trust Lyra's instincts. She has a good heart, even if she rarely shows it."

"Dr Polstead ... can I ask you something?" Hermione began cautiously. "Something about Miss Lyra?"

"You're wondering if she has an ulterior agenda regarding you?" Malcolm guessed.

"Well ... yes," Hermione whispered back. "How did you know?"

"Because you are bright, too, and intelligent enough to read the intentions of others," Malcolm explained. "Dr Riddle put me onto _that_ aspect of you. You question _everything_ around you. It is an admirable quality to carry, Hermione. And of course you would question why Lyra would be so keen to help you, especially when you consider that she barely knows you, but is willing to cross worlds for you, to put herself in danger for you."

"Are ... are we in _danger_ then?" Hermione stuttered, an icy trickle of fear running down her spine at Malcolm's firm tone.

"Very much so," Malcolm replied, darkly. "There are two agents of the Magisterium parked in a car across the road, watching us, as we speak."

Hermione gasped and jumped up to see. She was at Malcolm's side before he could complain. So he pulled off his overcoat and wrapped it around her shoulders, to keep out the biting cold of the Lapland Winter, something the wooden walls of the bunkhouse were powerless to deflect.

"Where are they?" Hermione whispered.

"You see that old tug moored up at the quay?" Malcolm asked, pointing at the little boat a few hundred yards away. Hermione nodded. "Watch it for a few moments. Then you'll see."

So she did. For a minute she saw nothing, and then suddenly there was a little spark of orange that didn't belong there. It was so small that had she not been looking right at it, Hermione wouldn't have noticed it at all.

"What is that?" she breathed.

"It looks like our CCD friends are partial to smokeleaf," Malcolm replied, blithely. "He's been puffing away like that for nearly three hours."

Hermione nodded in understanding. "How do they know we're here?"

"Could be a dozen ways," Malcolm confessed. "Someone might have spotted us leaving London, or the CCD agents you met at the Royal Arctic Institute may have come here on a whim. Most likely, though, is our Witch-Consul friend might have his fingers in several pies. He seemed the sort."

"But, he _gave_ you the travel visa," Hermione reminded him, slightly confused. "Why would he do that?"

"He is a duplicitous creature," Malcolm returned darkly. "Your Pap knew about his fake dæmon, I assume? Well, he's clearly got more faces than a pair of dice. It wouldn't surprise me to find he's on the Magisterium's payroll somewhere. Too smooth by half, and if he's deceived the Witches, as well ... we need to be cautious where he's concerned."

" _Deceived the Witches_?" Hermione gasped in horror. "I didn't think they _could_ be deceived? I thought they were like the _panserbjorne_ in that way?"

"They are," Malcolm confirmed. "They aren't _easy_ to trick, but it happens. I think it has happened with _him_."

"But why?"

"Consider the convenience for yourself," Malcolm prompted. "This man - this very _bizarre_ man - randomly turns up in our world. Arrives - if we believe him - in a state bordering death. _Clinging to life_ , was how he described it. Now, why would _that_ be, do you think?"

So Hermione did, and the answer chilled her. "Because he didn't just _leave_ that world ... he was _thrown out_!"

"And quite violently, we can assume," Malcolm went on with an acknowledging nod. "It doesn't take a great leap of deduction to understand that such a man may not be as trustworthy as he seems."

"And then he _did_ trick the Witches!" Hermione exclaimed. "By making them believe his snake was his _d_ _æ_ _mon_ , but she isn't! But ... why then would he give us the travel visa?"

"My guess? He _wants_ us to get out into the wilderness of the frozen North," Malcolm replied. "Out there the risks are great. There is a good chance we might not survive if we aren't totally focused. And even _then_ , the Magisterium can use the CCD Agents to get rid of us ... and make it _look_ like just another Arctic accident. You'd be _amazed_ if you knew how many scholars and explorers come to _that_ end, if they cross the Magisterium's imaginary lines."

"But then Dr Riddle is tricking _everyone_!" Hermione cried. "Well, he wont trick _us!_ We'll go and find the Witches, and tell them everything. They will _have_ to help us then! Because we'll be telling them that they are being deceived, but don't know it."

"Oh ... but we _do_ ," came a soft voice from the doorway. "And you need not worry about us, special child, for we have Dr Riddle under close watch. In fact, he is more of a risk to _you_ than to us ... which is why I've come to you now."

Just then, Lyra snorted and stirred, as she woke amidst all the conversation. She looked up with bleary eyes, and blinked the sleep from her face in a matter of seconds.

"Oh, there you are. I've been wondering when you'd show up, Serafina Pekkala."


	19. Some Unexpected Guests

Christmas morning dawned pale and drizzly, which disappointed Harry as he was really hoping to experience a White Christmas for his first one above ground. Fortunately for him this fairytale was made possible by Minerva who, upon noticing his mournful expression, cast a clever little charm on the living room as he entered, a charm that allowed for warm, dry snow to fall _inside_ the townhouse flat. Harry spent a good hour just playing in the cotton-wool like drifts, frolicking about and having a great time.

That was until Sirius charmed a couple of snowballs to follow Harry around and perpetually bop him on the head. Ten minutes of _that_ was quite enough for Harry, who scowled at Sirius and begged Minerva to cancel the spell, which she did with a deft sweep of her wand.

Sirius' punishment was that he had to cook breakfast. Harry watched him work at the stove, whistling away and rocking that _Kiss The Cook_ hat that he'd conjured from somewhere. Soon the open plan kitchen was awash with the smell of frying eggs, sizzling bacon and popping, juicy sausages.

Then Harry frowned.

"Er, Sirius, why are you making so much?" Harry asked. "There's only me, you and Auntie Min."

Harry gestured towards a multi-compartment bain-marie, which Sirius was using to keep his food warm. His godfather turned his twinkling eyes on Harry.

"It's a Christmas Secret," he replied cryptically.

Harry frowned at him. "I hope it isn't the same type as putting cling film over the toilet bowl. That was a truly _disgusting_ secret ... one I wish I'd never learned!"

Sirius barked out a laugh. "Oh no, kiddo, that was just a Christmas prank."

"Well, I'm planning my revenge," Harry moaned bitterly. "Just know that."

"I look forward to it!" Sirius hooted.

Harry left Sirius to his curious over-cooking and joined Minerva by the Christmas tree. He spent a moment looking at the _real_ fairies darting about between the branches, swinging on the baubles and playing _hide-and-seek_ behind the points of the star on top.

Minerva was busy tidying up the glossy wrapping paper from Harry's presents. She had gifted him two books, one a sourcebook on ancient Runes and the other a thick tome called _An Idiots Guide to Advanced Magical Flight_ , which would be a companion gift to Sirius' broom, which was propped up in the corner behind the oversized tree.

In addition to the books, Minerva had also bought Harry a set of his very own Runestones, which she had begun teaching him how to _charge_.

"Each rune has a meaning, and we will get to them in good time," she was saying between casting bundles of paper into the roaring fire. "But first we need to charge them with your personal energy and magic."

"How do we do that?" Harry asked eagerly, sitting cross-legged opposite Minerva.

"The process is relatively simple to start with," Minerva went on. "You simply close your eyes, clear your mind, and hold the rune tight in your palm for three minutes. You visualise energy flowing from your skin into the crystals, infusing them with warmth and vibrancy."

"How will I know if it works?" Harry queried, turning some of the complex Runestones in his fingers.

"The Runes will vibrate with an energy that you will feel and recognise," Minerva explained. "It will be like looking in a mirror. The Runes will feel as _part_ of you."

"Is that it? That doesn't seem so hard."

"It is only the basic level. In order to get the runes to function correctly, you will need to learn to charge them with your _intent_ , which is a significantly more difficult practice. It will also require the use of a ritual circle, but we can build that together."

"I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself there, Minerva!" Sirius called over jovially. "You'll be turning the boy's _head_ in circles if you carry on."

Sirius wasn't wrong. The whole thing _was_ making Harry very dizzy. So he got up and went back to Sirius.

"Ah, good, I'm nearly done," Sirius announced. "And as you're over here you can set the table!"

Harry rather thought he walked into that one. But he acquiesced, setting three plates with cutlery and napkins. Then Sirius called over to him.

"You're missing a couple of places," he quirked.

"No, I'm not," Harry frowned. "Unless you want me to set a place for Hedwig, or a bowl for Auntie Min, just in case she decides to change into a cat halfway through!"

Harry still hadn't _quite_ gotten used to the fact that _both_ his guardians had the ability to transform themselves into animals. He felt slightly jealous, but also cross at his parents, his father in particular, for not showing him how to do this himself. He made a note to tell his parents off for this latest indiscretion.

Little did Harry know he'd be able to carry that out _very_ soon.

For there was a knock at the door just then. Sirius lazily flicked his wand to open it, and Lily and James Potter strolled in, the latter's arms weighed down under yet _more_ presents for Harry.

"Mum! Dad!" Harry yelped in surprise, leaping up. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"What a greeting!" James laughed. "I would have hoped for _Merry Christmas_ , but then again you _have_ been living with Sirius for five months already. I should have known your manners wouldn't survive the experience!"

"But some happy tears or a hug will just have to do!" Lily added with a grin, kneeling down as Harry raced to her and threw his arms around her neck.

"Merry Christmas, Mum!" Harry beamed. "You too, Dad!"

Harry clobbered James around the middle, which nearly sent his armful of presents toppling to the floor.

"Easy there, son!" James chuckled. "You don't want to break all these gifts, do you?"

"No, Dad, sorry," Harry grinned. "What did you get me?"

James ruffled his hair. "How about we open them together after breakfast? I'm starving and this all smells so good."

"I'll set the extra places!" Harry volunteered, hurrying to grab plates and knives and forks.

"How was the trip?" asked Minerva, joining James, Lily and Harry at the dining table.

"Strange," Lily replied. "It's been _years_ since I Apparated. Now I remember how much I hated it!"

"I'm not a fan, either," James concurred. "But now that we've gotten rid of that bothersome child of ours we can become fully-fledged Muggles. I might even rent out Harry's old room and save up for a sports car. Something fun. Like a Porsche."

Sirius came over and placed the food-heavy bain-marie between James and Harry with a pointed cough, that the youngest Potter was convinced contained a masked ' _mid-life crisis_ ' whisper somewhere under Sirius' throat-clearing gruff. The teasing wink Harry received from his Godfather all but confirmed this suspicion.

"I would have thought," Minerva began, after helping herself to toast and bacon. "That you might be planning a way to _return_ to our world, now that Harry will soon be out in the open."

"Out in the open?" Harry queried. "What do you mean?"

"The 'murder' of Lily and James Potter still ranks as one of the most dramatic events of the last decade," Minerva explained. "It coincided with the defeat of The Dark Lord _You-Know-Who_ and the suicide of his most feared and celebrated Dark General -"

"- that would be _me_!" Sirius grinned through a mouthful of scrambled egg. "Though I prefer _Minion Number One_ , if you don't mind!"

"You're a little _number two_ still, I see," Lily quirked from across the table.

"Hey, I don't have to take this abuse from the likes of you," Sirius laughed.

" _The likes of me_?" Lily replied with raised eyebrows. "Is that a slight on my blood status?"

"Nah, just your hair colour, Lil'-Lost-Lil," Sirius retorted with a cheeky grin. "You know I've always been riddled with _ginger-vitis_."

"Now I know _that_ isn't true," James teased. "Remember that time you dated Molly Prewett?"

"Urgh, don't remind me," Sirius grimaced. "Worst week of my _life_!"

"Who was Molly Prewett?" Harry chuckled, eager to know.

"We went to Hogwarts together," James clarified. "Hufflepuff girl, Gobstones Club President. She had the _biggest_ crush on Sirius. All because he saved her from an Acromantula once!"

"Acro- _what_?" Harry queried, in the direction of his mother.

"Giant spiders," Lily replied, to which Harry shuddered like a leaf in a breeze. "There is a whole colony of them in the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts."

Harry suddenly felt a little squeamish and his sausages - which had been delicious up to that point - didn't seem quite so appetising anymore.

"A colony of _giant spiders_?" Harry parroted. "Is that place at _Eton College_ still on the table!?"

James and Sirius laughed together at Harry's terrified expression.

"They don't interact with the school, and the Forest is off-limits to students anyway," James went on.

"Not that such a trifling rule would stop the likes of _you two_ ," Minerva frowned sternly.

Harry gasped in shock. "You went running around in a forest full of giant spiders!" he cried in horror. "That's so _reckless!"_

"Not to mention idiotic," Lily added, scrunching her nose playfully at James.

"Well we had to have _somewhere_ to blow off steam ... and to perfect our Animagus transformations, of course," Sirius explained.

"Why _did_ you become animals?" asked Harry. "Don't get me wrong, it's a cool skill and I hope _I_ get to do it one day, but do all magical people do it?"

"No, it's a skill that most magicals don't ever perfect," Minerva stepped in. "I became a cat because my late husband could transform into a British Shorthair, so we wanted to experience time together in feline form. _These two_ , however, did it for slightly _different_ reasons."

"But equally as valid," James argued.

"And we picked _way_ cooler animals than little pussycats," Sirius grinned at Harry.

"A dog and a stag," Harry stated. "Why such big ones though?"

"We had to," James explained. "To control our friend, Remus. That was the whole point of us learning how to transform in the first place."

"Why? What was he?"

"A _werewolf_ ," Lily revealed. "Remus became a savage beast once a month."

Harry gasped in yet greater shock.

"Whereas _James_ was savage pretty much every day!" Sirius teased.

"James was an _idiot_ for not telling me," Lily huffed crossly. "He only confessed when I confronted him about why he kept disappearing once a month. I thought he was cheating on me, or that maybe he was actually _a girl_ himself, and kept vanishing at his _time of the month_!"

Now Minerva took a turn at laughing, which stunned Harry greatly as he wasn't sure he'd ever heard her laugh like that before. It was a belly-rolling chuckle that suited her very well. Harry wished she'd do it more often.

"So you both became large animals," Harry went on. "And that was how Sirius saved this Molly girl from the big spiders?"

"Well ... sort of," James snickered. "You see, Molly was _seriously_ interested in Sirius and wanted to know who her competition was. There were even rumours that she was going to use a love potion on him, if he wouldn't agree to go on a date with her."

"Apparently she was quite good at brewing them," Lily quipped in.

"So I decided to _put her off me_ ," Sirius took over. "I only ever meant to upset her _a bit_. So I planted a rumour that I was going to sneak out to the Forbidden Forest with some girl or another, and hoped that Molly would follow me. Then I went to the Forest and laid out a trail of shoes and socks and girly underwear that we swiped from the laundry room, hoping that Molly would find them and get the hint, get angry and leave me alone."

"Only it was Acromantula breeding season," James laughed. "The trail went too far into the trees, the spiders came and nearly made off with Molly, so Sirius had to go and rescue her."

"Which made her fall even _more_ madly in love with him!" Lily chortled. "He was her hero!"

"I thought I owed her a date after that," Sirius completed. "So we went out for a week or so. But I played the demure card, pretended all my bluster was just a cover for my insecurities and inexperience and Molly got bored after that. Said something about wanting a _man not a mouse_. It damaged my reputation for about a month, but that was a fair trade in my view, just to get her off my back."

Harry screwed up his features and tried to process all the silly games older people played. Then he finally got back on point. He turned to Minerva once more.

"You were saying about me being _out in the open_ soon," Harry began. "What did you mean by that?"

"Only that your family name is famous in the magical world, due to the circumstances surrounding your parent's faux-demise," Minerva explained. "But, once you are exposed to the world at Hogwarts, everyone will know that _what they know_ might not be the same as the _truth_."

"I think I see," Harry mused. "But, hold on ... wont that make _me_ famous, too? If I survived when my parents didn't?"

"Well, yes ... I suppose it will."

"I'm not sure I _want_ to be famous," Harry grumbled with a frown. "It will be hard enough to settle in as it is. If I have to deal with _fame_ on top of all that, it's going to make it a nightmare!"

"He has a fair point, Minerva," James agreed seriously. "We are going to have to protect him from that somehow, once he enrols at Hogwarts."

"I concur," Minerva nodded. "Which is why I was asking about your _own_ return. That would certainly deflect attention from Harry."

"But at the same time throw much of the wider magical community into disarray," Lily argued.

"I don't see _how_ ," Minerva replied.

"Just think of it, Minerva," Lily went on. "The magical world believes Voldemort was defeated, along with Sirius, around the time we disappeared. But there has never been any concrete proof to support this, only Voldemort's absence."

"And I am still considered to be a criminal at large," Sirius pointed out.

Lily nodded in acknowledgement. "And James tells me that there is still deep-rooted fear that Voldemort will some day return, that there wasn't enough human _left_ of him to kill. If we suddenly turn up alive and well that may ignite all those latent fears."

"Some may even tie our miraculous survival into Voldemort's defeat," James added. "And it wont take long for some bright sleuth to work out that Harry fits the criteria of all those children Voldemort was identifying as threats to him. Hell, some may even view him as a _rival Dark Lord_ , on account of his survival."

"What criteria?" Harry insisted urgently. Suddenly, his future didn't seem so bright and wonderful as he had begun to believe. 

"Voldemort was raining a war of _Biblical_ terror on magical Britain," Sirius took over. "He was demanding that the Government surrender to him, but they didn't. So in response, he threatened to unleash Seven Plagues on Magical Britain, to bring the country to its knees in front of him. He had carried out six already, and declared that at the end of July - exactly one year after his proclamation - he would bring about Plague Seven."

"Which was?"

"The Death of the Firstborn," Lily replied with a shudder. "You had been born the previous year, so you were one of the names on Voldemort's Hit List. So that prompted our escape."

"And now you are on the cusp of your return," said Minerva. "Or, at least, Harry is. How do you hope to explain that? Because you will have to somehow."

"We can just say he survived the attack, and was sent to live with my Muggle sister," Lily suggested. "That will explain his naivety about the magical world and his own story. We will leave people to make up the details any way they like. It will buy us time to work out something longer-term."

"And in the meantime I can save for that _vroom-vroom!"_ James beamed. "I'm thinking I'll get it in a nice metallic red with antimony alloys."

"Don't forget the furry dice," Sirius reminded him.

"The cherry on the cake!" James grinned back.

Just then there was _another_ knock at the door. This time Sirius got up to answer it. Two people entered the flat with jovial cries of ' _merry Christmas';_ the first one was the oldest man Harry had ever seen. His silver hair and beard were so long that he could tuck them into his belt. He wore hobnailed boots and half-moon spectacles, behind which sat a startling pair of electric blue eyes, that twinkled with wit and cleverness.

"Albus!" Minerva cried, standing up to greet the Hogwarts Headmaster. "What a lovely surprise!"

Harry noticed his parents seemed a little less pleased to see the newcomer. There was definitely a coolness about them when they greeted Albus Dumbledore, who introduced himself to Harry with a smile and a shake of his wrinkled hand.

But Harry forgot him in a moment, for his travelling companion had entered the flat now. And if Dumbledore was the perhaps the oldest man Harry had ever seen, this man was unquestionably the _biggest._ He looked too huge to even be _allowed_. The giant had to duck low and squeeze himself through the door just to get in.

"Merry Christmas!" he boomed as he slammed the door shut behind him, shaking the whole building. "Hope we ain't disturbin' ya. We were jus' takin' the puppy for a walk and thought we'd stop by!"

Then Harry saw the _puppy_ , yelped in terror and leapt behind his mother for protection.

"Mum!" Harry hissed. "That dog ... it has _three-heads_!"


	20. Like The Witches Do

Papageno curled in close to Hermione's neck, intertwining himself with her thick woollen scarf. He was ermine-formed again, and pressed himself tight under the veil of her hair, doing all he could to protect her from the sudden gusts of the harsh Arctic winds. She was glad of his dense fur and body warmth against her flesh, thankful that she had some barrier against the biting cold and wondering just how long they would travel before they set up camp for the night.

For they had been travelling across the snow for three days now, and this would be their third night under the stars. The pack of dogs pulled their heavy sled in a seemingly tireless manner, deeper and deeper into that desert of bleak whiteness ahead of and all around them. Hermione didn't think it would ever end and wondered vaguely when they'd see civilisation again.

Not that she could imagine what form civilisation would even _take_ out here. She was rather convinced that nothing could survive in this barren, offensive terrain. But, of course, she knew that things _did_ , she just had little concept of how they managed it, now that she was marooned in the wilderness itself. There didn't seem to be sources of food, or water, or shelter from the elements. It was a truly hellish environment.

Hermione's only source of solace were the Witches, who were circling high above the sled and leading them on. They seemed to know where they were going, and were not at all affected by the cold, gliding along on their cloud-pines as they were, in their ragged scraps of silk, looking both glamorous and alluring, fierce and dangerous all at once.

And there was no greater embodiment of this than Queen Serafina Pekkala, herself. Hermione had been enchanted by her almost from the first time she'd laid eyes on her. There was something about her, a mystique, a power, an indelible sense of _other_ that Hermione found captivating. She could barely pull her attention away from her. Even now, she scanned the mass of Witches overhead and wondered where Serafina was among the throng.

The keen interest was only stirred further by Serafina's own curiosity regarding _Hermione_. For it turned out that the Witches had heard about her ... and had been _expecting_ her arrival in the North.

"You've been _waiting_ for me?" Hermione asked in her astonishment, as Serafina made the disclosure around the campfire on their first night on the ice.

"For quite some time," Serafina confirmed. "Ever since the arrival of Thomas Riddle, in fact."

"The Witch-Consul?" Hermione asked, confused. "What does he have to do with anything?"

" _Everything_ ," Serafina whispered. "He is the trigger for all that is happening now, for all the evil that _will_ happen, if we cannot prevent it. And, somehow, you have a key role to play in the events that are to come."

"Me? How?"

"This we do not know with absolute certainty," Serafina replied. "We Witches can see only so much. We feel things, suspect things and prepare accordingly. But the future is not written in stone, the details not etched and immutable. There are many ends that could be reached ... our only hope is to assist you in delivering the outcome that benefits us all."

"And how do you know I am even involved at all?" Hermione pressed.

"Many years ago, the details of a prophecy from another world were delivered to us by a man named Sirius Black," Serafina began.

"Bastard ... womanising _bastard_!" Lyra sniped bitterly.

"Quite," Serafina smiled. "Many of my clan _also_ took him as their lover, Lyra. You were not the only heart he broke during his time here."

"I'll break his _jaw_ if I ever cross paths with him again," Lyra hissed. "Bastard!"

" _Anyway_ ," Serafina continued. "Sirius warned us that he had duelled with another man from his world, a tyrant, and that in the course of their battle they fell through a portal between worlds and ended up here. In the crossing they separated, so Sirius had no way of knowing the fate of his adversary."

"So Sirius ended up with Lyra, and the other man - who I assume is Dr Riddle - was found by you?" Hermione surmised.

"Not precisely," Serafina confirmed. "We went looking for him, but he was found by another enclave of our clan, one who hadn't been warned of his evil nature. He charmed his way into their favour, and it was they who eventually installed him as the Witch-Consul in Trollesund."

"But if you knew what he was, why didn't you act?"

"Because Thomas Riddle is a swarthy and clever character," Serafina explained. "As soon as he was in situ in Trollesund, he began making alliances _elsewhere_ , namely with the Magisterium. He saw the value of being able to play both sides as his needs required."

"And what _are_ his needs?" Hermione asked.

"Revenge," Serafina replied, darkly. "He wishes to raise an army, then return to his old world and take back the power he lost there. But he also wants to dominate in _this_ world. And the Magisterium are prepared to support his ambitions. After all, he is promising to destroy magic and other sources of _heresy_ wherever he finds it.

"And I have a feeling he will be an even more formidable opponent this time, to that other world, than he was before. And if he establishes that world as a base, a fortress from which to strike out at _other_ worlds, then none of us will be safe.

"Which is where _you_ come in."

"Me, again," Hermione huffed. "What am I supposed to do? I cant fight a war! I'm only _eleven_!"

"And yet you may be in possession of a great power, and you are even now unaware of it," Serafina smiled.

"Power? What power?"

"The power of logic, of intelligence, of _influence_. The power you have, Hermione, is the ability to guide and influence the one person who _can_ win this war. This boy you are seeking in that other world."

Hermione gasped out loud. " _What_? Is ... is that the danger he's in? The one the alethiometer warned me about?"

Serafina nodded. "I can only imagine that it _is_ , for we were given similar portents."

Hermione shuddered inside her furs as she tried to process the information. "This Dr Riddle ... he also knows about this prophecy, doesn't he? And he's going to try and kill the boy ... the one I'm going to fall in love with?"

"I didn't know _that_ part," Serafina smiled prettily, which made Hermione blush all over. "But 'yes' to the other. From what Sirius told us, Thomas Riddle used his war as an excuse to offset an element of the prophecy - one that said a child would be born at the end of the month of July, one who would have the power to defeat him. This power Riddle would know nothing about.

"Now, in _their_ world, prophecy is very vague and allegorical. But Witches _here_ have greater insight into such things. And our interpretation was that the power mentioned was the simple manifestation of this boy's inherent goodness, to rise in opposition to the evil of Riddle. In order to _bring out_ that goodness, the boy needs to find true, heartfelt love ... and together with the one he _shares_ that love with, they can triumph over anything."

Hermione blinked in her shy shock. "A-and that person ... the one he will love ... is _m-me_?"

"So it would seem," Serafina swooned. "After all, here you are ... on your way to make it happen." 

"But how can I do that?" Hermione asked, wringing her hands nervously. "So much is counting on us, it seems. How can I guarantee that I'll succeed?"

"In love, there are no rules," Serafina replied. "All I would say is that it must happen _organically_. If you simply meet him and tell him you have to fall in love, the chances are you will contrive ways to try and force it, and it will not happen."

"But what if I cant make him love me in a natural way? What if we aren't compatible, or I'm not his type, or he finds me repulsive and irritating?" Hermione cried a little desperately. "What then?"

Serafina reached over and squeezed Hermione's arm supportively. "The fates have deemed your union _possible_ , so the best advice is to let nature take its course. Remember, that you will now know far more about what is going on than he will. It will make you uniquely placed to guide and assist him. Use your judgement, make him see just how valuable you are, be his champion and his conscience, his cheering section and his voice of caution. If he is a worthwhile hero, he will see that he simply cannot do without you. Such a bond will be the strongest foundation for romantic love possible. Position yourself as the closest thing to his heart ... then there wont be room for anyone else there."

"I ... I can do that," Hermione whispered shyly. "But it will be so hard to conceal my true nature from him."

"A small deceit that he will surely overlook once the truth outs," Serafina calmed her. "Thomas Riddle _will_ return to that world ... and when he does, _your_ knowledge of _ours_ will be invaluable to the resistance effort. You will become central to the fight."

Hermione felt galvanised by that. It steeled her now on this cold trek across the snow. She wondered where Serafina and the witches were taking them. She knew that they weren't heading to Svalbard and the home of the bears, and Mal had questioned the direction himself, pointing out that the portal was Northwest of Trollesund and they were heading on a distinctly Easterly tract.

"What is to the East?" Hermione asked, as the dogs pulled them along, propelled by some special magic being done by the Witches above them.

"The home territory of Serafina's clan," Lyra called back, her voice loud against the howling wind. "I cant imagine what we are heading _there_ for, but Serafina wouldn't be taking us if it wasn't important. And at least we will be able to take comfy beds in their ice-yurts tonight. I have barely slept in that flimsy tent we have."

Hermione nodded in agreement, her own head equally as sleep deprived. Just then, Pap poked his little ermine-head out from the curtain of Hermione's bushy curls and whispered into her ear.

"Hermione! Look at that?"

"At what?"

"Look ... look up!"

So she did ... and the sight took her breath away.

For they were speeding beneath a break in dense clouds scudding across the sky, and in the parting of the bleak darkness the aurora was streaming through. Vast sheets of greens and crimsons, with the occasional sweep of gold, twisted and folded all across the heavens ... it was an incredible sight, and Hermione felt immediate validation of this fundamental adventure she had embarked upon.

"Oh, _Pap_!" Hermione breathed. "It's _beautiful_!"

"It really is!" Papageno agreed reverently. "And it feel likes it has come out to wish us well on our way, doesn't it?"

"That's what _I_ was thinking!" Hermione cried. "Oh, Pap, I don't think I'm going to be quite so afraid and uncertain anymore, no matter what we're going to face. Not when we have _that_ on our side!"

Hermione swept her hand towards the gorgeous display above them to emphasise her point.

"What do you think we _will_ face next?" Papageno asked, his voice suddenly quiet and loaded with emotion.

"What do you mean?" Hermione replied, shivering involuntarily at the undercurrent to Papageno's tone.

"I think we can safely assume this is all about _us_ now," Papageno replied. "That we are heading to the home of the Witches because there is something _we_ have to do there. And I can only conceive of _one_ reason for that ..."

"Oh, don't even think it!" Hermione implored passionately. "I don't want to even consider that idea!"

"But we _have_ to," Pap urged. "If that _is_ what we are going there for, we will have to face the choice eventually. Better deciding now, together and on our own, than in the face of all the pressure from Lyra and Mal and Serafina, placing the fate of who knows _how many_ worlds onto our shoulders."

"Oh no, Pap! I don't want to!" Hermione cried, hot tears breaking on her cheeks and freezing instantly. "Please don't make me talk about this!"

"We _must_!" he insisted.

"But why? What makes you so sure that this is the reason we're going to the Witches? It might not be."

"Use your intelligence, think of what the common denominator is," Papageno ploughed on relentlessly. "What can _everyone_ here do that only _we_ cant? What will make _us_ stand out as odd in that new world? What will we have _there_ that no-one else will?"

Hermione sniffed hard, trying not to accept the answer, but it was already lodged firmly in her mind ... and Papageno would not let her ignore it any longer.

So he had to vocalise the thought for her.

"It's _us ..._ our very _nature_ ," Pap stated firmly. "We cant _separate_ ... and we wont be allowed to go on and into that new world until we _can_."

Hermione howled in agony as the grief of the prospect gripped at her heart. Behind her, Malcolm and Lyra exchanged a look loaded with both sympathy and empathy ... for they knew that Hermione had finally arrived at the realisation that they _both_ knew was unavoidable. And they heard in her anguished tone all the pain they remembered from their _own_ similar experiences of such a moment.

"Pap, no!" Hermione resisted. "I cant, _we_ cant _..._ there must be another way!"

"There isn't ... and you know that," Pap replied gently. "You've known it for a while. We both have. In _that_ world, we will be different. We couldn't even pass me off as a _pet_ , as we'd be joined too closely. It would raise suspicion."

"But if we _could_ separate ... if we could _do it ..._ maybe we could do _that_ ," Hermione whimpered, clutching at her chest. "Pretend you were my pet. At least ... at least we'd still be together."

"I think that's why I've been dreaming of being a cat," Papageno replied. "I would fit in there like that, and I could go off and see things that you _couldn't_ and be _useful_. There would definitely be _benefits_ ...

"But could we _do_ it?" Hermione groaned. "The pain part, I mean? ... I don't know if I can."

"Of course you can, you're the strongest person I know," Papageno replied stoutly, which made Hermione whine yet more deeply. "Look how brave you've been already, coming here, doing all of this. All for a boy you've never met ... all for a love you've not known yet. And it will _save the world_. You're a true heroine, Hermione Granger!"

Hermione shrieked passionately again and pulled Pap to her breast, and he dug his claws into her as firmly as he dared. For several minutes they just wept desperately together, the sound so heartsick and agonised that even Lyra and Mal - and Pan and Asta, too - clung together for support against the sound.

Eventually, Hermione's heaving sobs became rhythmic hiccups as the enormity of the decision settled onto her heart. She tried to control her raspy breathing, as she fought against all her lingering ideas of opposition. But in truth, she'd made the decision long ago ... perhaps the moment she'd set foot out of her front door to begin this journey.

There was no possibility of turning back now.

"Okay ... w-we'll do it," Hermione decided in a shaky voice. "We'll _separate ..._ like the Witches do."

"It'll hurt, but we'll endure it," Pap agreed doughtily. "And we'll find each other again."

"And we'll be whole, even if only when we're together."

"We'll do it for the world ... this one _and_ that one."

"And we'll do it for love," Hermione declared, steeling herself with every breath. "For mine _and_ Mr Potter's. We'll become a Witch for him ... for us _both_."

"I'm glad you've made such a grown-up decision," Serafina Pekkala swooned as she landed nearby and the sled came to an abrupt halt. "For we're here. At the Witches Proving Ground."


	21. The Giant and the Professor

“Oh don’ mind Fluffy. He won’ hurt ya!”

Harry blinked in shock as the giant addressed him. He wasn’t sure what stunned him more, the fact that the giant could speak _English_ \- well, of a _fashion_ \- or that he’d called his three-headed dog _Fluffy_. So that was the question Harry blurted out first.

“Fluffy? You call that animal _Fluffy?”_

“Well, yeah,” the giant replied reticently. “ _I_ think he’s fluffy …”

Harry could _sort of_ see what he meant, if that mass of fur around Fluffy’s slobbering, snarling snouts counted. Not that Harry was paying much attention to the fur … not when three sets of razor-sharp fangs were currently being bared at him.

“Wha’ would you call him, then?” the giant asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Harry replied sardonically. “ _Killer? Monster_? _Beast from Hell?_ Something like that seems more appropriate. What can I call _you_ , though?”

“Oh, true, I haven’t introduced meself, have I?” the giant replied with one of his cannon-like laughs. “Me name’s Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds and Hogwarts. But ya can just call me Hagrid. Nice to meet ya.”

He held out a dustbin-sized hand to shake, which enveloped Harry’s entire forearm as he took it. This wasn’t a bad thing in Harry’s mind, as it protected his skinny flesh from the nearest of Fluffy’s snapping jaws, which he hadn’t taken his eyes off.

“Aren’t you afraid of … of Fluffy?” Harry asked cautiously. One of the other heads had started sniffing around, perhaps smelling the residue of sausage and bacon on Harry’s fingers. “Don’t you think he might eat you in the night, or something?”

Hagrid chuckled deeply again. “Nah, these big brutes are fine. You jus’ need to know how to handle ‘em. Take Fluffy, here … all you gotta do is play him a bit o' music and he goes right to sleep. Watch.”

Hagrid bent down and started _singing_ to all three of Fluffy’s heads at once. Well, it was an _approximation_ of signing … if the vocalist was a tuneless, tone-deaf fog horn. Which described Hagrid’s warbling pretty accurately as far as Harry was concerned. But he was good to his word … for at the very first - _very off-key -_ note, all six of Fluffy’s eyes started to droop and the heads all lolled at once.

“See? Told ya!” Hagrid beamed. But as soon as he stopped his demonic lullaby Fluffy stirred, roused and began snarling again. So Hagrid reached into his large overcoat and pulled out three slabs of meat, which occupied each hungry mouth for the time being.

“So you have to _keep_ playing music to subdue him?” Harry mused. “How strange!”

“Ah music!” Dumbledore suddenly exclaimed. “Surely a greater magic than anything we teach at Hogwarts!”

Harry was rather dubious about agreeing. He rather thought potion-making, spell-casting and flying was _infinitely_ more magical than Hagrid’s audition for _Wizard’s Got Talent._ But he held his tongue just the same.

“Why don’t you join us for Christmas dinner?” Lily suggested. She didn’t look _thrilled_ at the idea, but Harry agreed with the expression in her eyes that it was only polite to offer.

“Oh, no, we wouldn’t want to intrude,” Dumbledore replied softly.

“Nonsense,” Sirius insisted. “We have plenty of room and enough food to fill _all_ of Fluffy’s bellies, too! So long as Hagrid can get his pet settled for the afternoon, you are more than welcome to stay.”

“Well … if you are sure,” Dumbledore smiled. Then he conjured a small, self-playing harp with his wand and handed it to Hagrid, who tied it to one of Fluffy’s collars. The dog immediately began to slumber and the giant had to pick up the oversized puppy as he hit the deck with a heavy thud.

“Take him to my room, the one on the left,” Sirius announced. “It will have the scent of my dog-self on it, which Fluffy might prefer to Harry and his girly talc!”

“Hey! I do not use talc!” Harry protested, but the others just chuckled at him and James ruffled his messy locks fondly.

“Come on, Harry,” Lily cooed. “What say you and I make a start on this lunch? I bet your Godfather hasn’t even got the meat in the oven yet.”

“I was thinking about doing Christmas _pizza_ , you know … just to shake the tradition up a bit!” Sirius teased.

“Not on my watch!” Lily cried. “Are you serious?”

“It’s pronounced _Sih-ree-us._ Go on, try and wrap your gob around that if you can!”

“I’ll wrap my hands around your throat if you carry on!” Lily admonished, but there was humour behind her eyes as she shared a smirk with Harry’s Godfather.

As Harry and Lily headed into the kitchen, James poured cups of tea for Hagrid and Dumbledore as they settled down on the comfy sofas either side of the hearth. Hagrid was so vast he took up an entire sofa on his own.

“So, anything new at Hogwarts, Albus?” James asked from his seat at the dining table. “I hear that Professor Quirrell is into his _second_ year as Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. You might want to keep an eye on him, you know … it must take some seriously powerful Dark magic to avoid _that_ curse!”

“Curse?” Harry piped up from his potato peeler. “The Professor is _cursed_ , did you say?”

“No, son, not the man, the _job_ ,” James clarified.

“Well, it isn’t _really_ a curse,” Minerva chipped in. “It’s just that nobody seems able to survive in the job for more than a year.”

“Survive?” Harry gasped in horror. “What do you mean by that? The teachers don’t … _die_ … do they?”

“No, well at least, _not yet_ ,” Dumbledore smiled amiably. “Though we have had several maimings, a few lost limbs, even more lost _minds_. Oh, and of course, that curious incident where a male Professor fell pregnant. We never did get to the bottom of _that_ particular mystery!”

There was light and wit behind those flickering eyes and Harry wasn’t sure if the old Headmaster was joking with him or not.

“Did … did _he_ have the baby?” Harry asked, enthralled. “And if he did … _how_?”

Both James and Sirius winced as the possibilities crossed _both_ their minds … and all possible options for a _male birthing canal_ were considered simultaneously. Lily just tutted at them pityingly, and muttered something about men having no concept of a _pain threshold._

“We never found out,” Dumbledore replied. “I should look into it, really.”

“But how can a job be cursed?” asked Harry. “And how can it cause so many injuries? Is Hogwarts simply that dangerous?”

“Teaching Magic often wreaks havoc with both students and Professors,” Dumbledore pondered aloud. “I, indeed, have been injured three times myself. My final solution for an easy life was, shall we say, _unique_.”

“Which was?”

“I became Headmaster!” Dumbledore chuckled. “And left all the dangerous bits of _hands-on education_ in the less scarred hands of others!”

Minerva chuckled for a moment, then turned seriously to Dumbledore. “Speaking of _scarred hands_ , how is Pomona? I heard that Poppy was insisting she head to St Mungo’s for a course of treatment.”

“Pomona?” Harry asked. “Who’s that?”

“Pomona Sprout,” Minerva replied. “She is another Professor at Hogwarts. She teaches Herbology.”

“ _Study of magical plants_ ,” Lily whispered into Harry’s ear with a twinkling grin, just as he opened his jaws to ask the question. He beamed his thanks back at her.

“What’s happened to her?” Harry asked instead. “Didn’t you say St Mungo’s is a hospital, or something?”

“A Centre to treat Magical Maladies, yes,” Dumbledore took over. “And poor Pomona is having a little trouble with a particularly nasty cutting of a very rare plant I have asked her to cultivate, for a project I am working on.”

“What is it?”

“The project? Ah, Harry, I’m afraid I cannot tell you that,” Dumbledore smiled benignly. “It must remain a secret, between myself and my old friend, Nicolas Flamel.”

Nicolas Flamel. Harry had heard his name before … but where? He couldn’t remember. So much had happened in the last few months that Harry was quite sure he’d forgotten more in that time than his entire accumulated knowledge of his first ten years of life put together. Nicolas Flamel would have to become just another footnote in Harry’s overwrought brain for now.

“But the plant,” Dumbledore went on. “Is called _Devil’s Snare_. It has snaking tendrils that wrap and coil around living flesh, and squeeze it tight in the hope of drawing blood, which it uses as a source of nutrition.”

“As _food_!” Harry gasped in horror. “This plant _eats_ people?”

“No, not _eats,_ as such,” Dumbledore mused cheerfully. “More like … _liquidates_ … using enzymes from little suction ducts on the leaves.”

“And you have this in _a school_!” Harry breathed in shock. “Are you _insane_? Do the giant spiders use the killer plants to spin their webs in! And what do the webs catch? Rolled-up-newspaper resistant mega-bees!? Flies with teeth the size of carving knives!? Mum … I’m leaning more and more towards going to Eton. At least _there_ I might not get _eaten alive_ in my first term!”

“Eaten alive!” Hagrid chortled. “You’re bein’ a bit dramatic there, Harry. It’s not like we got _dragons_ on the grounds, or nothin’.”

Harry swallowed another mouthful of nauseating fear. “Excuse me, but I don’t think I heard you right. Did you just say _dragons?_ ”

“Aye that I did,” Hagrid confirmed.

“What … like … _real_ dragons?”

“Yep.”

“That fly and breathe fire and stuff?” Harry insisted in wide-eyed disbelief.

“Don’ forget the ones who breathe _ice_ instead of fire!” Hagrid chuckled.

“Wow!” Harry breathed. “There are _real_ dragons, then? In Britain?”

“And other parts of the world,” Hagrid nodded. “Ministry of Magic has to keep ‘em all covered up and in secret, o’ course, but yeah there’s still a few breeds left in Britain. Crikey, I’d like a dragon.”

Harry blinked in his amazement. “You’d _like_ a dragon?!”

“Oh Merlin would I!” Hagrid exclaimed as his eyes glossed over with the thought. “Always have. Since I was a kid.”

Harry went to say something then closed his mouth again quickly. He was wondering how Hagrid, who was clearly only _partially_ human, had been conceived at all. He was considering which of his parents was a regular person and which was a giant … and how _that_ baby-making process had ever happened at all! Harry knew enough about the _birds and the bees_ to have his mind utterly warped by _both_ possible configurations.

He shuddered slightly as he went back to the subject of dragons. “Could you even take care of a dragon then?”

“I reckon so,” Hagrid nodded confidently. “After Fluffy back there, I reckon a dragon’d be a piece o’ cake. Shame it’s illegal to breed them for personal companionship.”

 _Personal companionship …_ with a _dragon!_ Harry was starting to think that Hagrid was perhaps a misguided sort of savage. He was deeply curious to understand how he was even _allowed_ up at Hogwarts. But then again, Harry thought, if Hogwarts was full of huge monsters, maybe they need a huge gamekeeper to manage them all. That would make sense, but it didn’t make Harry feel any more comfortable about attending this Academy of Absurdity.

“So how did Pomona get injured by the Snare?” James queried. “Seems a little careless of her.”

“Well, this genus is a good deal larger than standard varieties,” Dumbledore explained. “And the enzyme secretions that much more potent as a result. It burnt through Pomona’s work attire and did significant damage to her hands and forearms. She’s cheery enough about it, and I’m sure the Healers at St Mungo’s will have her right as rain in no time.”

“No, what I _meant,_ Albus,” James clarified. “Is that it was careless of her to forget how to _repel_ the Snare. It’s first year material, that is.”

Harry was alert in a flash. There was a way to fight the killer plant? He was desperately urgent to know how, just in case _he_ ever had a run-in with the stuff by accident.

“You can _kill_ Devil’s Snare?” Harry asked, eagerly. “How?”

“Devil’s Snare likes the dark and damp, so how do _you_ think you’d repel it?” Lily cajoled.

“Um … I don’t know,” Harry mumbled. He felt like he was being tested on the spot and it was a test he hadn't studied for.

“Think about it,” Lily encouraged softly. “It likes dark places and damp, wet conditions … so how would you make it uncomfortable?”

“Er … by making it hot and dry?” Harry tried. “And bright, maybe?”

“Brilliant!” Lily beamed. She kissed him on the top of his head, which made him blush. “And how would you do that?”

“With … with _fire_!” Harry exclaimed.

“Great! Ten points to Team Harry!” Lily cried.

Harry grinned back, then he frowned. “But what if you didn’t have any wood? Or no matches?”

Lily blinked at him, a smile pulling at the corner of her lips … as she tapped the tip of her wand pointedly against her temple. Harry laughed at himself as he understood.

“Oh … oh of course!” he snickered. “You’d just use magic, wouldn’t you?”

“You’d think so,” James agreed. “Which is why I’m surprised at Pomona. She’s a master when it comes to difficult plants.”

“I blame myself,” Dumbledore sighed. “I should have warned her that this particular species could be problematic due to its size and aggressive nature. I should buy her some flowers by way of apology."

Harry was going to say that he shouldn’t bother as - if they went on current form - the aroma of the petals would probably cause hallucinations or something. But Lily seemed to sense that was _exactly_ what he was going to do, and yanked his attention back to the potato peeling.

The Christmas lunch was wonderful. A large turkey dominated the centre of the table, flanked by tureens of peas and carrots and broccoli, while the bain-marie had been re-employed to hold roast and boiled potatoes and bouncy Yorkshire puddings. There were vats of rich gravy, shallow dishes of other sauces, and colourful crackers were set at each place.

But these weren’t _ordinary_ crackers. They were from _The Wizarding Cracker Company_ , went off with the sound of an exploding cannon, and instead of yielding flimsy paper hats came out with such things as a pirate hat for Sirius, a tiara for Lily, and one of those hat’s with corks dangling from the rim, which Professor Dumbledore had perched onto his wrinkled head.

They also had better gifts. Harry won a little toy broom with his first one, which he set to zoom around and around Hedwig’s cage, until it made her so dizzy that she fell off her perch and had to be revived with some water from her little bowl. She pouted crossly at Harry for a while, forgiving him only when he hand-fed her the last of the turkey from his plate, which she accepted with an affectionate little nip of her beak against his fingers.

After dinner they all slumped by the fire to let their food go down. Harry had wolfed down so much that he felt like a fat little egg, and simply rolled around on the floor to offset the swell of his burgeoning belly. That was when he bumped into his unopened presents from his parents. He jumped up in his eagerness and tore off the paper to the first of his gifts. It was handsome leather trunk, that James immediately resized for him.

“For when you go to Hogwarts,” he explained. “It is magically modified to have near-infinite space inside … and to weigh no more than that _other_ gift over there.”

Harry reached down and lifted up a feather-light package that was next on the pile. His heart gave a great bound as he tore back the paper and a silvery, gossamer-soft garment flowed out into his lap.

“Your _Invisibility Cloak!”_ Harry breathed in a stunned voice. “For me?”

“As much as it breaks my heart, yes,” James teased. “Just as my father gave it to me, I now pass it on to _you_. It’s a rite of passage I’m _lucky_ to get to do.”

Then James leaned over and kissed Harry on the crown of his head. Harry jumped up squeezed his father tightly.

“Thanks, Dad!” Harry cried. “I _love_ it!”

“Use it well,” James replied, somewhat cryptically. His eyes were full of meaning, but Harry was too overcome with the thrill of the gift to be truly interested in trying to dissect what it might be.

It was gone midnight by the time Dumbledore and Hagrid said their goodbyes. Minerva helped Albus with his travelling cloak, as Hagrid wrestled a grumpy Fluffy into all three of his harnesses.

“Where are you staying?” asked Sirius.

“Other side o’ London,” Hagrid explained. Then he frowned. “Oh, yeah. It’s late, innit? The Tube will have stopped by now. Don’t know how we’re going to get back.”

“Ah, yes, that is a problem,” Dumbledore agreed. “I rather feel that I have had a little too much Firewhiskey to trust my Apparition skills … especially if I would have _passengers_ , to take along. Looks like we have a long walk ahead, old friend. _”_

“Here, take these,” Sirius sighed reticently. He threw a set of keys to Hagrid, who look puzzled as he caught them. “My _aerocycle_. Third bay of the basement parking garage. Try not to scratch the paintwork, I’ve only just got her buffed.”

“Cheers,” Hagrid grinned broadly. “I’ll get her back in one piece, don’ worry. Well, g’night all.”

And with a cheery wave, the giant led the tipsy old wizard out into the London night.


	22. Bluebell Flames

The fox-fur flap opened slowly and Lyra chanced a look inside the ice-yurt. A single candle flickered at the heart of the round space, barely illuminating the rickety pine table, the bed in the far corner, or the girl huddled and whimpering under a mound of blankets atop it.

A girl very much _alone_.

For Hermione was in a state of shock, had not even yet taken the first tiny step on the long path towards recovery. She was still gripped by the marrow-deep pain, the soul-pinching _cold_ that the act of separation had wrought upon her. She was beyond tears now, didn’t feel corporeal enough to shriek and cry and wail. She was still struggling to even _process_ what had happened, to define in logical terms this thing that she had suffered … and to remember why she had agreed to undertake it so _willingly._

And Pap had not yet returned to help her understand. He was not there to console her, to ache and mourn with her, to bring back that warmth, that their parting had ripped away like a crusty scab over a still-raw wound. For the first time in eleven years, Hermione felt the jagged cut of _true_ solitude as it scythed into her being. She was truly alone for the fist time, without even her dæmon … and she was convinced that it was a sorrow from which she’d never, ever heal.

It was a pain Lyra knew intimately well. So she had come to see Hermione, to see what she could do, even though she knew in her heart that the answer was _nothing_. There was no way to soothe that searing scorch of loneliness, the abrupt and breathtaking trauma of _separation_. Lyra massaged her chest as she remembered her own suffering experience, on the shores of the World of the Dead with Will all those years ago. The excruciating pain, the guilt … and that abhorrent sense of desolate _solitude._

But, at least she’d _had_ Will. Poor Hermione had only a _promise_ of her love … and a whole world and more still existed between them.

So Lyra had come to try and do what she could in Mr Potter’s stead. Pantalaimon had remained in their own ice-yurt out of modesty and respect, knowing that to share such intimate consolation would be awkward without Papageno there to be a proxy. When _he_ returned, Pan would spring to life, and do for the newly-independent dæmon exactly that which Lyra was attempting to do for his sorrowful human.

Though Pantalaimon was jaded enough by life to know that his efforts would be _just_ as futile as Lyra’s promised to be.

But Lyra tried anyway. For in Hermione she saw, more and more each day, the daughter she’d always wished she’d had. A brave, clever girl perturbed by nothing, who took to her tasks with unshirking courage and forthrightness. Lyra was world-renowned for such strength herself, but these days she thought mostly that her decisions had been forced on her by extreme circumstance. Had she faced them in advance, and in the cold light of day, she questioned if she would have had the fortitude to go along with them.

And the courage that she saw _Hermione_ employing to do just that, melted her heart with profound pity, while at the same time stirring her spirits with the fiercest sense of pride Lyra felt capable of producing.

So she had to help now, even if that help was unwelcomed or, ultimately, unsuccessful. She approached Hermione’s shivering form and tucked the fur blankets tighter around her skinny shoulders. Then, as Hermione looked up in wide-eyed confusion at the movement, Lyra offered the mug of hot chocolatyl she had brought for her.

“Here, take this,” Lyra whispered softly, brushing an errant lock of hair from between Hermione’s eyebrows. “It will help, I promise.”

Such an oath was not something a body wracked by deep need could ignore, so Hermione pulled herself into a huddled sitting position and accepted the steaming mug.

“Drink deeply,” Lyra advised.

Hermione obeyed, and immediately felt the warmth and tingle of life bloom in her fingertips and at the edge of her toenails. It wouldn’t heal her, but it was certainly a start.

“Thank you,” Hermione mumbled, brushing away a trickle of chocolatyl that had escaped her trembling lips.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Lyra chanced, her tone as gentle as she was able.

Hermione’s initial thought was to shake her head, to burrow back down into her cocoon of blankets and just hope this would all go away. But her logical brain knew that it _wouldn’t_ , that it was too late to undo this agony, and that she would have to confront all her self-loathing on the matter if she ever hoped to forgive herself for it. Besides, to wallow in her misery seemed like an insult to her Pap, her heart, her love, who had been so brave and stout in his own endurance of their shared torment. He would be back soon, he promised, and Hermione was certain he’d be disappointed in her if he saw her like this.

He’d been so courageous in taking the lead in this hated task, had suffered just as much … and Hermione knew it was shameful for herself to be anything but his equal in this. She may not have had _more_ courage than Papageno, but she didn’t think she could bear the thought of him seeing her showing _less_.

So she hauled in another rattling breath, and decided to face this head-on. She turned her tear-strained face to Lyra and nursed the hot mug between her palms.

“It was … so much _worse_ than I imagined,” Hermione began in a near whisper. “So, _so_ much worse!”

“I know, I know,” Lyra sighed, closing her eyes in empathy.

Hermione looked up in surprise. It was as if she’d forgotten that other people could be so tortured, too, or that her Mistress had gone through the exact same thing herself. The _exact_ same thing! Somehow, the realisation eased Hermione’s anguish a little. As though sharing the burden had somehow lessened it slightly.

“Was … was it the same for you?” she breathed out, her words rising with the steam from her hot chocolatyl.

“Just the same, and just as bad,” Lyra confirmed in her lyrical voice. “Drink some more chocolatyl. It will make you feel better.”

It had worked the first time, so Hermione complied again. And felt a tiny bit better again. It brought the minutest bit of colour back to her cheeks, perhaps even a twitch of a smile to her top lip. And the first spark of ‘ _maybe I can survive this_ ’ crept into Hermione’s static mind.

“It’s the most _horrid_ thing, isn’t it?” Hermione hushed. “The pain … I didn’t even know it was _possible_ to hurt that much! Or even in that _way_. It was horrible. Worse than even that. I don’t think a word has been invented that does it justice.”

“I’m sorry, Hermione, that you had to go through it,” Lyra soothed softly. “Or that I didn’t do more to prepare you. I could have tried -”

Hermione suddenly reached out and squeezed Lyra’s arm, seeing the guilt trying to settle on her Mistress’ mind.

“It wasn’t your fault, and there was _nothing_ you could have said that would have adequately readied me … nothing at all,” Hermione rushed out. “That was a suffering beyond description.”

“Do you regret it?” Lyra queried.

“Yes,” Hermione replied immediately. “I regret it completely … right _now_. But I know that I _had_ to do it - that _we_ had to do it - if we had any real hope of going on and doing what we have to do in the future. I have two hopes that this will be worth it in the end … and that I wont regret it for very long.”

“And what are they?”

“The first one is that this is the _worst_ that it will get,” Hermione began. “That I wont suffer anything _more_ painful than this. Though I cant even _imagine_ that I could! This was, surely, the most terrible horror in existence. And the second, is that I find my boy in that other world, that we do all the things predicted for us … and that our love is so deep and satisfying and wonderful that it is _thrice_ the level of joy that the depth of this agony was. That would make it worth it, I think.”

Lyra smiled knowingly at her Apprentice. “If it inspires you, just know that it _was_ worth it for me. The reward of my love with Will … as soon as I felt _that_ , I knew I’d do it all again in a heartbeat … so long as my heart got to beat alongside _his_. We’ll find this Mr Potter of yours, give you that chance to claim _your_ reward. The hero always gets the girl … well perhaps this time the _heroine_ will get the _boy_!”

Hermione smiled shyly at that. “I hope so. It will keep me going when this gets the most difficult for me. And there will be times when that happens, wont there? Even when Pap comes back?”

Lyra nodded sadly. “Yes, I’m afraid there will be. It took the longest time for Pan and I to trust one another again. To _forgive_ each other for what we did. But our situation was _quite_ different … and I don’t think you and Pap will be estranged for very long.

“You undertook this with great courage, but also after a great, logical choice. He’s probably licking his wounds, trying to get used to that alien feeling of how your connection has changed. How much _thinner_ it feels. My Pan always said that was the most confusing part for him. Once he gets acclimatised to it, he’ll be back around your feet in no time.”

Hermione went to say something, but was interrupted when a something sharp pinged against the roof of the ice-yurt. Hermione looked up curiously, wondering if they were about to be hit with a deluge of hailstones or another rampant snowstorm. Then she looked at Lyra, whose expression had turned fierce and stony. Hermione was about to query it when there was another ping against the roof, then another … then _another_.

Something was hitting the yurt … but it wasn’t any form of ice. For this sound was now distinctly _metallic._

Then the flap of the yurt was yanked open and Mal thrust his head inside. The distant sounds of twanging strings and barking dogs came with him. Hermione froze as she looked up to see Mal’s rifle, cocked and ready in his firm grip.

“We have company … or, more specifically, a _company of Tartars_ will have _us_ if we don’t leave right now!”

Mal’s voice was so fierce and urgent that neither Hermione nor Lyra even considered protest. It was only as Lyra was helping Hermione with the last of her cold-weather clothes that the horrible realisation struck Hermione’s heart, with more ferocity than _all_ of the Tartars’ bullets and arrows combined.

“Pap! We cant leave until he comes back!” Hermione shrieked.

Lyra cursed and wrung her hands. “Hermione ... he could be _anywhere_!”

“I don’t _care_!” Hermione screeched back. “I’m not leaving him all alone out there! In the cold and the dark! I wont do it!”

She was so stout and fierce that Lyra knew it was pointless to argue.

“Okay. Stay here. I’ll find Serafina. Maybe she can help.”

And Lyra darted out of the yurt before Hermione could protest. She busied herself lacing up her heavy snow boots, before pacing around the yurt and chancing the occasional look outside whenever she heard the explosion of Mal’s rifle, or the whizzing of Witch-arrows from high above, or the piercing yelp as one of the husky-dæmons perished under fire …

Then the yurt cover opened again. Lyra was back with Serafina, who looked angry and fraught.

“Serafina!” Hermione cried, leaping up. “I’m so sorry! The Tartars must be here for _me!_ The Magisterium -”

“Hush now, child,” Serafina soothed kindly. “Don’t you worry yourself about such things. We can take care of a poor company of Tartars. But it is your poor, lost dæmon we need to worry about now. We have to find _him_ … before they do!”

Hermione gasped as the horrific possibility flooded her mind.

“Help me, Serafina Pekkala! Tell me what to do!”

“Only you can find your dæmon, or he _you_ ,” Serafina explained in a hurry. “But it is dark, not only out there … but in _here_.”

She pressed a hand to Hermione’s chest. The sensation took her breath a moment.

“Your light has grown weak, and we don’t have the time to wait for it to re-ignite properly,” Serafina continued. “What we need is to give you a _new_ light, one that your Papageno can follow back to you.”

Then Serafina reached into her scraps of black silk and withdrew a bell-jar. Inside was a mass of burning flames, blue in colour, crackling away as if being fuelled from another world itself.

“Bluebell Flames, the Light of the Soul,” Serafina explained. “Take them. Head out and away from the camp, away from the fighting. Let us deal with that … and let your dæmon find you again.”

Hermione took the jar in trembling hands. “How will I know which way to go?”

“Follow your heart,” Serafina smiled. “For that is the _only_ path you will ever walk along now. Go, quickly! And once you find your dæmon, find somewhere safe to hide. We will come for you when all our foolish enemies have been smote.”

And with one last, fierce smile, Serafina ducked out of the yurt and back into the battle. Lyra guided Hermione outside a moment later, urged her to the periphery of the settlement, then sent her on her way and into the grim darkness, as she, too, rejoined the fray.

Hermione was now left quite alone. She hurried away quickly from the sounds of the battle, then stopped to catch her breath, which was thin and raspy in the cold, night air. So she looked around, and each direction seemed equally as alien, equally as foreboding. Dark snow, dark trees, darker shadows pervading them all. How on Earth was she supposed to know where to go?

“Follow your heart,” Hermione parroted, echoing Serafina’s advice. “What does _that_ mean? Do _you_ know?”

Hermione held up the bell jar, speaking to it as though the purple-blue flames inside were her temporary dæmon. And, _bizarrely_ , they seemed to respond to her. In a way, at least. For Hermione was suddenly filled with the urge to walk _this way_. Not that way, or in that other direction, but on a particular path that led down the shallow slope. Why she felt more impelled to take _this_ route Hermione couldn’t tell. It looked no different, no better or worse, than a dozen others she might have struck out along.

But this one just _felt_ right. And if she was supposed to follow her heart …

So she did, for about ten minutes. That sensation didn’t increase in potency, but it stayed as a steady throb in her mind, comforting her that her decision was the correct one. The path led down the hill towards the edge of a small lake that was hidden there, flanked by tall evergreens and with the lights of the aurora flickering and dancing as they reflected in the shifting water.

Hermione watched it as she descended, thinking how pretty it was, and marvelling that she could still _appreciate_ beauty in her broken state. But her day-dreamy musings distracted her attention. She didn’t watch where she was going, found her foot hitting a protruding boulder before she could react to it, then became dizzy and cross as she tumbled down and down the hill like a little avalanche of snow and semi-Witch.

Then she came to a stop … and her heart leapt into her throat in a gout of fear.

For there, bearing its snarling teeth at her exposed neck, was one of the Tartar’s snow-dog dæmons … she knew its human couldn’t be far away. Sure enough, a second later, a black long-barrelled rifle emerged from the tree-line … and a hooded Tartar pointed it right at Hermione’s terrified eyes.

There was a click … a snarl … a guttural _roar_. The floor shook all around Hermione as if she were at the epicentre of a localised earthquake. Then _something_ came bounding over her … something _huge_. There was a disgusting, pitiful scream from the Tartar … then his dæmon simply _vanished_ in a puff of light, as his life was snuffed out … then another scream, one of utter triumph and emotion, from back up the hill - this time in _Lyra’s_ voice …

“Iorek! _Iorek Byrnison!_ ”


	23. The Godson Who Lived

January and February passed in a flash. Harry felt as if he’d blinked in the snow one minute, then the first sun of Spring welcomed him when he opened his eyes again. He and Sirius attended the Duelling World Championships, took in a few _Farringdon Fliers_ Quidditch matches at the Big Blue Tent, even got tickets to watch rugby and football games on the Muggle side of London.

Then there was all his learning with Minerva. After memorising _Hogwarts: A History_ , and _A History of Magic_ , Harry soon knew his rune sourcebook off by heart, too. Minerva then furnished him with a book on alchemy - _A Dictionary of Alchemical Imagery_ , by Lyndy Abraham - and that became his preferred bedtime reading of choice, though Sirius did turn his head slightly by introducing him to the comic book adventures of _Agent Cajun and the Mexican Misfits_.

The highly derogatory and insulting _Martin Miggs - The Mad Muggle_ , Harry quickly decided, was worth no more than to be the lining of Hedwig’s droppings tray.

So March arrived and proved to be unseasonally warm. On the Muggle side of London, newspaper sandwich boards screamed of a global temperature crisis, of rising sea levels, and of a debate over which vacuous narcissist would be crowned the winner of something called _Love Island_. Harry tried to imagine that - an island made entirely of love, or for the purpose of cultivating it - and found himself oddly addicted to the concept.

When he thought Sirius wasn’t watching, Harry rather bashfully thought _he_ wouldn’t mind spending some time in such a place.

But that was too weird a train of thought to dwell on for very long. So Harry busied himself with the business of reality, rather than indulging such silly and fanciful whims. He threw himself hungrily into his studies, he watched every football match broadcast on satellite television - then wondered why the magical world had no _visual-based_ media - and listened to music from both sides of his dual-worlds.

He quickly forgave his parents for being such avid fans of _The Weird Sisters,_ for he tuned into one of their concerts - that was broadcast live on the Wizarding Wireless Network - and was immediately transformed into a super fan. The driving, symphonic metal may have been so loud that it made the windows of the flat rattle, and gave Minerva such a headache that she had to go and take a lie down, but Harry was hooked.

This was further enhanced when Sirius bought him the latest copy of _Esoter-Rock!_ , a magical music magazine, which featured _The Weird Sisters_ as the lead article. Harry took one look at the beautiful, busty blonde lead singer-witch … and immediately developed an obsession with her, one that lived in a strange part of his upper groin that Harry was fairly sure hadn’t been there before.

But it was there now … and it belonged to _Miss Weird_.

And so it was that Harry’s new wardrobe became very black in colour, very cool and artsy-atmospheric, with _The Weird Sisters_ legends and logos emblazoned onto almost everything he owned.

So Sirius decided that he needed to shake it up a bit, before Harry became so Gothy that he was unreachable. His solution was to treat Harry to a bespoke, hand-tailored, _Farringdon Fliers_ travelling cloak. It would go pretty well with his Hogwarts robes, especially - Sirius pointed out confidently - when Harry was Sorted into Gryffindor, and the colours of his House badge and robe trim would match the colours of the London-based Quidditch team - which were scarlet and gold.

In Sirius’ mind, there was no way that Harry _wouldn’t_ be Sorted into Gryffindor. And if he wasn’t, Sirius promised, he would march up to Hogwarts and demand a _re-Sorting_ , threatening to set the Sorting Hat on fire if it didn’t comply.

So on a particularly sunny Saturday afternoon, Harry and Sirius made their way into magical London for Harry’s cloak fitting. It was too busy for them to find seats in _The Leaky Cauldron_ , so Sirius broke his earlier insistence and took Harry to what he assured him was a far _better_ pub on Immore Alley. Harry tried his hardest not to look at all the semi-robed witches leaning out of the red-lit windows, or at the leggy dancers outside _Mundungus Fletcher’s Revue Bar_ , but it was borderline impossible.

There were just so _many_ of them … and Harry found them as oddly interesting as that picture of Miss Weird he’d tacked above his bedpost …

Thankfully, Sirius didn’t allow Harry to suffer in one of the more risqué establishments. Instead, he led him to a quaint little tavern that looked as if it didn’t belong there. It was called _The Peacock’s Tail_ … and Harry quickly thought he understood why.

The exterior of the pub was very quaint and pretty. It had whitewashed stonework, with dark beams cutting the walls into squares, and a large, rear beer garden with circular tables, each with pretty red flowers in vases, offering a nice view of the river nearby. A few customers were enjoying an ale and a cigarette or two in the sun, watching the world go by, or else putting it to rights and offering their wealth of life experience, whether their fellows wanted to hear it or not.

And the reason for the pub’s name soon became apparent … for there were two peacocks strutting around between the drinkers, pecking at leftover scraps of food and showing off their stunning plumages. One was called Kenny, the other was called Chesney, and if they weren’t eating they were _singing_ to each other, which Harry thought was a clever way to give the pub patrons free live entertainment.

Inside, the pub was wonderfully cosy. Low ceilinged and softly lit, there were snug corners and rickety tables, character seeping out of the very walls themselves. The horseshoe-shaped bar was shiny from overuse, and there was a beautiful smell of warm food wafting from somewhere deep in the building. Harry swam in it, feeling warm and content, and wondering just how the owners of the dogs, in a painting that hung behind the bar, had managed to teach them to play snooker.

That was quite the impressive bit of magic.

Harry and Sirius ate homely food from the pub and enjoyed the laid-back ambience. It was cosier and more welcoming than _The Leaky Cauldron_ , which Harry rather suspected was intentional on behalf of the landlady, to try and entice more customers to her venue. It was also less hectic in here and Harry was soon in agreement with Sirius that this was a far better pub than the more famous rival around the corner.

After their spot of lunch, Harry and Sirius headed onto Diagon Alley and into _Madam Malkin’s Robes For All Occasions,_ where Harry had an appointment at 2 p.m. The assistant tailor, a Mr Swift, was an old friend of Sirius’ and was in on his ruse against the rest of the magical world. He greeted them warmly as they entered the neat little shop.

“Ah, right on time!” Mr Swift beamed as the door clicked shut behind them. “We have a private fitting room ready in the back. Follow me.”

Harry spent the next hour feeling like a human mannequin. Mr Swift took every measurement of Harry that he could. And not just the usual stuff, like shoulder breadth and arm length, but the distance between Harry’s ears and his eyes, the circumference of his wrist and the space between his nostrils. Harry assumed he knew what he was doing and decided - as the self-measuring tape moved on to record the depth of Harry’s tongue - to just listen to the conversation between the tailor and Sirius instead.

“Your turban is askance,” Mr Swift commented. “Let me adjust it for you.”

“Just so long as you don’t take it off,” Sirius warned. “You know I cant be seen.”

“Do I look stupid to you?” Mr Swift admonished, as he tidied up Sirius’ wrappings. “You know, I could just do you a sort of cowl instead of this. They are quite fashionable, you know.”

“I’m sure they _are_ … among bank robbers and former Death Eaters!” Sirius chuckled. “Forgive me, but that isn’t _quite_ the look I’m going for!”

“Death Eaters?” Harry queried from his spot on the measuring podium. “What’s a _Death Eater_?”

Mr Swift’s expression dropped darkly as he addressed Sirius. “He doesn’t _know?_ ”

“No, Jonathan, not everything,” Sirius returned lowly.

“And you are sending him to _Hogwarts_ so unprepared!” Mr Swift cried incredulously. “So _uneducated?_ ”

“Hey!” Harry protested crossly. He thought _that_ was going a bit far. “I’m not dumb, you know. I can do maths and science, and my spelling’s good, and I know a bit about runes and alchemy and magical history.”

“But not _that bit_ of our history, it would seem,” Mr Swift replied shrewdly.

“ _What_ bit?” Harry implored. “Sirius? Please tell me what a Death Eater is.”

Sirius sighed weightily. “A follower - a supporter - of the Dark Lord Voldemort. He had a small army of them, who swore to live and die at his command years before you were even born. Not all of them were ever brought to any sort of justice.”

Harry swallowed hard. He was starting to get a cold, prickly feeling every time he heard the name _Voldemort_. It was worse when Auntie Minerva called him _You-Know-Who,_ but this moniker was sinister enough as it was.

And Sirius _hadn’t_ told him all about his connection to this Dark wizard … or his eventual demise. His parents had been involved somewhere, too - and apparently the magical world gave credit for his ultimate defeat to Albus Dumbledore - but Sirius’ involvement was deeper than he’d yet confessed. Harry knew _that_ much, at least. He wondered if _now_ would be the moment when he would learn the truth.

But he was out of luck.

For Sirius suddenly yelped and leapt from his seat. Harry’s heart began to pound hard under his ribs in a sudden burst of terror. Sirius was so agitated that Harry wondered if he’d seen a consignment of Death Eaters about to enter the shop. Harry was on alert in a flash … and followed Sirius’ eye line to the shop door.

But all Harry saw was the portly ginger woman and her husband, the ones that he’d seen that first day at _The Leaky Cauldron_ with his father _._

“Oh, _Merlin’s Knickers!”_ Sirius hissed lowly. “Jon - you have to hide me! I cant be seen! Not by _her!_ ”

“Why?” Harry cried urgently. “Who is she? Is she one of the Death Eaters? Is she going to kill you?”

“No,” Sirius returned darkly. “She’ll want to do _worse_ than kill me, Harry … that, kiddo, is _Molly Prewett_!”

Harry had to choke back a giggle. Sirius was so frantic that it was all Harry could do not to burst into peels of laughter as he watched him. He was darting around, semi-crouched, like a cat burglar on a job, trying to find somewhere to dive out of sight.

He tried one of the fitting stalls, but his feet still showed, and he was _convinced_ that Molly would recognise him by _them_ alone. Next he tried blending in to a window display, only to hear Molly’s husband say they were looking for new Prefects Robes, which was _exactly_ what Sirius was concealed amongst. In the end, Mr Swift took charge.

“Here, take my keys to the back storeroom,” the tailor insisted. “There’s a cupboard under the stairs there. Hide in there and don’t come out until I come to fetch you!”

“Thanks!” Sirius cried, darting out of the exit door just as Molly and her husband rounded the corner to the fitting rooms.

“Ah, Swift! There you are!” Molly cried. “We thought it wasn’t like you to leave the shop unmanned.”

“Forgive me, Molly,” Mr Swift simpered. “I was just fitting up this young gentleman for his … er … Hogwarts robes. Yes, that was it. School term starts soon, you know.”

“Getting a head start, eh young man?” the balding husband asked cheerily. “Are you starting next year at Hogwarts?”

“Um, yes,” Harry mumbled shyly. “It’ll be my first year there. I only just found out.”

“Muggleborn, eh!” the husband chuckled jovially. “Don’t worry, it wont hold you back _too_ much. Some Muggleborns have gone on to do very well for themselves. I love all things, Muggle myself! It’s amazing, isn't it, all the quaint and bizarre ways they’ve come up with to cope without magic! Quite extraordinary, really!”

Harry frowned hard at that. He didn’t think he liked the way this man was being so condescending. It made it worse that he didn’t even seem to _know_ he was doing it. Harry decided there and then that the first thing he would do at Hogwarts was to make good friends with the first Muggleborn he met. He had a feeling they would need friends against such attitudes.

Harry scowled bitterly as Molly began talking again.

“I do know,” Molly frowned. “About the upcoming term. We’ll have to make an appointment to have our Percy’s old things resized for Ron. That's our son ... he starts at Hogwarts next year, too, dear.”

Molly smiled toothily at Harry, and it was all he could do not to frown it back at her. Only his mother’s voice in his mind, reminding him to be polite, stopped him in his tracks.

“Oh, is he?” he drawled blandly in reply. “That’s nice.”

“Maybe you can be friends,” Molly suggested. “I’ll make sure to point him out to you on the Platform on September the First.”

“Platform?” Harry couldn’t help but query, his mind already awash with planning a raft of evasive manoeuvres to escape this unknown boy.

Molly looked at her husband with a knowing smile. “Aww, Arthur, he doesn’t know! How _cute_ is that?”

“It must be so _exciting_ , coming from the Muggle world … with so much to learn!” Arthur beamed back. “Sometimes, I envy them, you know.”

Harry ground his jaw and bit his inner lip so hard that he drew blood. Molly and Arthur didn’t seem to notice a thing.

“As Arthur was saying,” Molly simpered on. “There’s a train you catch to get to Hogwarts. It leaves from Kings Cross Station … from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.”

Harry was swimming in confusion now, which provided a handy excuse for the frown on his expression. “That’s silly. How can you have _three-quarters_ of a platform?”

Arthur grinned at him like he was a simpleton. Then he explained - in a would-be-mysterious voice. “Well … it’s _magic_ , isn’t it! Don’t worry … don’t be overwhelmed by all this. When you’re friends with our Ron, he’ll explain everything to you. You’ll see soon enough, and you’ll forget you ever lived as a Muggle at all!”

Harry had taken enough. He may not have been very _magical_ yet, but he wasn’t an idiot. He jumped down from the podium, thanked Mr Swift for his trouble and raced outside, his face flushed with anger and desperate to get some fresh air. But Molly and Arthur went after him.

“I’m sorry!” Arthur called jokily. “Did I say something wrong, son?”

And Harry _snapped_. He may not have been a proper wizard … but he _certainly_ wasn’t this clown’s _son_. He had a father of his own, a brave and fully-fledged wizard, one that Harry loved too much to accept being called _son_ by any other man. And it was _his_ passion that took over Harry in that moment.

“Yeah, you did!” Harry cried, rounding on Arthur in the middle of the crowded street.

“Did I?” asked Arthur. His genuine _surprise_ merely stoked Harry’s rage even more. “What did I say to upset you?”

“ _Everything_!” Harry yelled. “You’re arrogant, and cruel, and you don’t even _know_ it! You insulted me in every _possible_ way and now I just want you to leave me alone, please!”

Arthur flushed at Harry's rebuke, which was delivered with such fervour - not to mention _volume_ \- that it had drawn a significant crowd to watch them.

“I meant no offence, so-”

 _“Don’t call me son!”_ Harry screamed angrily. “I have a father, and a mother, and only _they_ can call me that! And you know what? They are _both_ magical! And far better than the likes of _you_!”

“And who are they?” Molly demanded, furious on her meek husband’s behalf.

“Lily and James Potter,” came a smooth voice from the doorway of Madam Malkin’s. “This is their son, Harry. Survivor of the attack by Lord Voldemort, raised by Lily’s Muggle sister, and now under the protection of _me_ … his wrongly-accused _Godfather_.”

Harry watched with a chest full of swelling pride, as Sirius emerged from the doorway and unveiled himself from under his turban. He made his way to Harry’s side, not once looking at Molly and Arthur. The crowd gasped, too engrossed with the revelation to decide if they were impressed or terrified the most. Harry clobbered Sirius with a massive hug, which drew swoons from many in the crowd. Harry, sensing a turn in the opinion of the masses - as well as an opportunity for some free appeal-time - turned to the assembled crowd.

“All of that is true!” he called out. “I _am_ Harry Potter … and this is Sirius Black, my Godfather. And he _saved_ me from Lord Voldemort … he saved you all! If he hadn’t made the sacrifice he did, you would all be under the boots of the Death Eaters by now. And I swear to you, with Merlin - and all you good people - as my witnesses, I will not _rest_ until I clear my Godfather’s good name!”

Sirius grinned down at him, not once challenging this invented history. “Come on, _Boy Who Lived_ … let’s get you home.”

And a second later, they disappeared in a swirl of Apparition.

An hour _later_ and the evening editions of _The Daily Prophet_ excitedly heralded the emergence of a living legend.


	24. Ice Station Zebra

_‘Ice Station Zebra’_

Hermione looked up at the huge, snow-covered letters of the sign above the entrance door to the complex, just as Iorek came to a stop and allowed her to slide off his back. It had been a surprisingly smooth ride, and Hermione’s dainty self weighed little more than a feather to the powerful bear, so they had made good time. Serafina and her witches had pulled the sled using some spell or another, and Lyra and Mal now busied themselves unloading their cargo, just as the wind began to pick up again.

Papageno was there too, somewhere, just hidden out of sight. Hermione could feel him close, just on the periphery of her mind and vision. She kept the Bluebell Flame jar in sight at all times, just so _he_ could see it, too. How he had managed to follow them, Hermione couldn’t guess, unless he had just snuck onto the sled, or masked himself as one of the snow-dogs.

Either way, he was there with them … and Hermione was hopeful that very soon he’d come back to her.

But for now she distracted herself by assessing her surroundings. The Portal Station was a most unremarkable-looking thing, so nondescript that Hermione thought you’d probably miss it if you didn’t know it was there. Then she realised that this was probably the very _point_. It was a large, dome-shaped metal structure, a little bit like an upside-down ice cream cone, with seven flat-panelled sides that came to an apex level with the tops of the surrounding trees. The dark grey metal blended in with the snow and the rugged sides of a sheer ravine that orbited it from the West.

It wasn’t the most _welcoming_ of locations.

“Are you afraid, Miss Hermione?”

Hermione turned to face Iorek Byrnison, King of the _panserbjorne_ , who had spoken to her. His gruff, growl of a voice had frightened her when they first met, but now she sought solace in the power it commanded, and took an example from his strength and bravery. Or, at least, as much as an eleven-year-old new witch _could_.

“A little bit,” Hermione confessed. “Do _you_ ever get scared, King Iorek?”

“Not often, but it happens,” the great bear replied. "And when it does, I defeat it."

“How do you beat fear?” Hermione asked. “Because fear for _you_ must be something very great indeed. I cant imagine _what_ could scare the _panserbjorne_.”

“We have fears enough, but they would not be of your understanding,” Iorek continued. “But when I meet fear, I accept it. I face it like any other enemy, and master it as such. You would do well to do the same, for where you are going, you will face one of the most challenging types of fear - the _unknown_.”

“Would that scare _you_?”

“To begin with, yes,” Iorek answered. “To go to a place where I didn’t know _myself,_ where my own kind was different, despite looking the same - that would be challenging, indeed. I have heard that bears _there_ are not like they are here - they have no armour, they struggle for survival, they allow humans to put them in cages and charge money to be seen as curiosities. That is no life for a bear.”

“Or any other animal,” Hermione agreed. “I cant understand how any creature can make a slave of another. It’s horrible to even think about it.”

“You will go far, young witch,” Iorek observed in his rolling growl. “If you maintain such an attitude. You will be a Silvertongue daughter of great worth to the world.”

Hermione blushed at that. “Thank you, King Iorek. And thank you for coming to rescue me. I cant remember if I said thank you for that or not.”

“You did, but I will accept your thanks again,” Iorek replied. “Lyra and Queen Pekkala tell me you have great deeds to achieve in your life. Even a bear is not insensible of making formidable alliances with such a human. I would not be sorry to cross paths with you again, young witch. If you have need of me in the future, Lyra will know how to find me.”

“Thank you, King Iorek,” Hermione beamed, and wrapped her arms around his neck for a hug. But Iorek was so massive that Hermione’s hands couldn’t even reach each other around the bear’s hulking frame.

“Speaking of _finding things,_ I think it is high time we find that mischievous dæmon of yours,” said Lyra, coming up from behind them. “Serafina says that a heavy storm is approaching from the North. So we need to get inside very soon.”

“But how can I get him to come to me?” asked Hermione. “Every time I try he just runs away again.”

“Then it is time to stop asking, and to begin _telling_ ,” Iorek advised. “I understand little of the relationship between a human and their dæmon, but I know that it is part of you, an aspect of your soul. It can guide you, assist you … but it can also _obey_ you. All you need is to show a strength of character that will command that respect.”

“Right, I will,” Hermione nodded stoutly, in a business-like manner.

She snatched up the bell jar and marched off briskly into the cluster of trees and bushes nearby. She knew Pap was hiding in there somewhere, listening to every word. As Hermione stomped through the snow she thought she caught glimpses of him, darting under brambles or burrowing beneath snow drifts. She started to pretend to ignore _him_ , hoping it would stoke that side of him that demanded her attention whenever they were alone.

After going for about fifty yards, Hermione stopped and sat on a tree stump at the centre of a clearing she found there. She placed the jar of Bluebell Flames between her little feet and crossed her arms stubbornly over her chest. Then she just frowned for a full minute.

“I know you’re in there, Papageno, so you can stop hiding,” she huffed.

Then she smirked to herself as she saw a pair of eyes blink back at her from the tree-line. Using her dæmon’s full name was always a guaranteed way to taunt out a response.

He emerged a moment later, cat-formed, his bandy legs looking awkward and unsteady under his fluffy body.

“Well look at you … with your _crooked shanks_ ,” Hermione teased.

“And look at _you,_ with your _secret fire_ ,” Papageno flung back. “Only been a witch for a few days and you’re _already_ doing magic!”

They looked at each other for a few seconds, both trying not to smirk, or cry, and then suddenly Papageno just trotted forward and leapt up into Hermione’s outstretched, waiting arms.

“Oh Pap!” she wept as she tugged him to her chest. “I’m so sorry! So sorry that I hurt you! That we hurt so badly! I’m so, so sorry!”

“I’m not,” Pap replied, which caused Hermione to pull him away from her in surprise.

“You’re _not_?”

Papageno shook his head. “We agreed to do it. We knew it would hurt, but we survived it. Now we can say we are brave, and strong, like Lyra and Iorek and Mal. We don’t need to be afraid of anything anymore. We should be proud of ourselves.”

“I’m proud of _you_ ,” Hermione cried hotly. “You were so courageous. I didn’t think I could do it, and I was going to stop at least twice. But then I saw you, so firm and tough, and I knew I couldn’t let you down. But why did you stay away so long? I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Papageno confessed. “But I had to get used to it, being away from you. Where we’re going, I’m going to be like that a lot. And I needed to give _you_ chance to get used to it, too. This is how we are now, Hermione. It feels strange, and different, and not what either of us expected. But it’s the _new_ us. And you know what? I think it will be okay.”

“So do I!” Hermione agreed with a beaming smile. “But don’t think you can just run away from me whenever you like, and go off chasing rats or something. Don’t try and be all prissy and _independent_. You’re still _my_ dæmon!”

“And you’re still my _human!_ All pouty and stompy as ever!”

Hermione laughed and hugged Pap closely to her again. Then they got up and started walking back towards the ice station.

“So, are you going to stay like that now?” Hermione asked, looking down at the cat prints Pap was making in the snow.

“Yes, yes I think so,” the dæmon replied. “Even though I still _can_ change, I think I’ll stay like this more often than not. I wont be able to change so much in that _other_ world anyway, so might as well try to get out of the habit now.”

“Will you miss it? Changing?”

“For a while, but we both knew I’d have to settle eventually. No point lamenting something we cannot avoid, is there?”

Hermione nodded in agreement. They soon reached the ice station again and joined the party at the entrance doors. Mal and Lyra were saying their goodbyes to Iorek and Serafina. Hermione added hers to the raft of adieus and promises to see each other again, then after one last hug to each, followed Mal inside the station building itself.

Hermione winced a little as the door clicked shut behind them. The powerful anbaric lights were so bright, and after days in the pale glow of the Arctic desert the glare was quite shocking to her eyes. But she was glad of the warmth, which came largely from under-floor heating which seeped up through their toes as the party made their way into the heart of the building.

Mal led them into a room where all their belongings had been stored. It looked like a seminar room, with three rows of tables and a large whiteboard on the far wall. Mal turned to Lyra and Hermione as they sat down.

“This is what’s known as a ‘ _Prep Room’_ ,” Malcolm explained. “Before anyone is allowed to cross into the other world, they need to become completely immersed in the culture _over there_.”

“So that they blend in,” Hermione sagely assumed.

“Precisely,” Mal nodded. “My friends who head up the project can explain more about what we are going to need to know. They’ve gone back and fore to that world many, many times. I’ll just go and fetch them.”

“A cup of tea might be nice, too,” Lyra quirked with a grin. “Maybe some biscuits?”

Mal smirked back at her. “I’ll see what I can rustle up. You ladies get settled and I’ll be back soon.”

As Mal left, Pap and Pan fell into deep conversation in the corner of the room. Lyra turned to Hermione.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes, much!” Hermione beamed back. “Thank you … for being so understanding. I couldn’t have gotten through this without your help.”

Lyra flushed slightly at Hermione’s words. “So, I suppose we’d better start to think about what we’re going to do … once we _cross over_.”

“We have to find this boy,” Hermione replied, a little confused. “I thought that was the plan?”

“It is, but how are we going to do it?” Lyra asked. “You heard what Serafina said. It isn’t as if we can just walk up to this stranger and tell him all this. Imagine how he will take that. He could be surprised, confused … even scared. He might run away if we just blurt it out like that.”

“Oh … I didn’t think of it like that,” Hermione frowned. “What do you think we should do, then?”

“We are going to have to live in that world … maybe for a long time,” Lyra began. “Remember, you have to _fall_ _in love_ … and this boy has to fall in love with you, too. And you’re still so young for any of that. You don’t know what romantic love even _is_ at your age, and we can guess this boy will be the same. You have to grow up a little before any of that can happen.”

Hermione huffed deeply. “What do you suggest then?”

“We have to find him and try and get you into his life,” Lyra replied. “We cant force you to be friends, but we have to give you a chance to get to know him. We could take a house in his street, get you to join clubs that he might be in, enrol at the same _school_. Then the rest will be up to you.”

“But how are we even going to _find_ him?” Hermione grumbled. “He could be _anywhere_!”

“You’re forgetting, we still have _this_!” Lyra grinned. Then she reached into one of her cases and drew out the mahogany box. The alethiometer was set on the table a moment later.

“What are you going to ask it?” Hermione whispered reverently, resting her head on her palms as she planted her elbows either side of the alethiometer, to watch Lyra at work.

“Let’s ask who he is, shall we?” Lyra smiled back.

Hermione nodded enthusiastically and Lyra began turning the dials. The long needle of the symbol-reader swung around and around, giving Lyra her answer.

 _He is a wizard_.

Lyra blinked as she came out of her trance-like state, and told Hermione the message.

“A wizard? Isn’t that … like a male _witch_?” Hermione hushed. “Like your friend, Sirius?”

“Just like that,” Lyra confirmed. “How curious.”

“And if he _is_ a wizard, then I think I know just where we should start looking.”

Malcolm had re-entered the room at that moment, with two people in tow. They smiled warmly at Hermione as they crossed the room to them.

“You do?” Hermione asked Mal, excitedly. “How?”

“These are my friends, and they know all about witches and wizards in _that_ world … for they used to _be_ a pair of them,” Mal grinned. “Allow me to introduce you to my favourite ex-colleagues - Frank and Alice.”

“Nice to meet you,” Hermione began politely. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I understand … how is it that you _used_ to be a … a _witch and wizard_?”

Alice smiled kindly at Hermione. “We are from that world originally. But there was a great war, and we were victims of the tyrant who started it.”

“Thomas Riddle, you mean?” asked Hermione.

“Yes,” Frank confirmed. “How do you know him?”

“We went to see him in Trollesund,” Malcolm explained. “He gave us our travel visa to get here … and sent the Tartars to make sure we never returned.”

“But luckily I have friends in the North,” Lyra grinned fiercely. “So we were ready for them when they struck.”

“You said you were _victims_ ,” Hermione continued, her features fixed in a puzzled expression. “But you’re _here_.”

“Yes, because only our _minds_ were attacked,” Alice replied. “We were tortured by one of Riddle’s people, a sadistic witch named Bella Lestrange. She and Riddle were heavily into _soul magic_ … delving into the Darkest of Dark Arts.”

“What did they hope to do?” Hermione asked with a cool shiver.

“Ultimately, they wanted to _split_ their souls, to anchor them to the physical world,” Frank explained. “It would, essentially, make them _immortal._ Thomas Riddle assumed the nickname of _Lord Voldemort_ … but the only sort of _lord_ he became was a Dark one. He was able to successfully split his soul, we learned later.”

Hermione gasped in horror. “And you … did he split _your_ souls?”

“Of a fashion,” Alice took over. “Bella was able to _rip_ our souls from our bodies, but she had no vessel to place them into. For the longest time our souls just wandered aimlessly, lost in the world. For, you see, our physical bodies survived. But our souls had no idea how to get back into them.”

“Then, as much by chance as design, our souls found a route here, to this world,” Frank continued. “They were accepted as _separated d_ _æ_ _mons_. We found friends in the Witches and the scholars here. They sent through a recovery party, and they brought our bodies back to us.”

“And, miraculously, in _this_ world we became whole again,” Alice explained. Hermione now saw her little dæmon on her shoulder. He was a toad, and he poked his beady eyes out from the veil of Alice’s long hair. “Our minds are linked to our dæmon’s, just as yours are.”

“But can you go back?” Hermione asked. She thought it would be very sad if they _couldn’t_.

But Frank’s glum expression confirmed this fear. “We _can_ , but we lose the connection at once. We can still control our bodies to some extent, but we appear - to all intents and purposes - as if we have _lost our minds._ ”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Hermione sympathised. “Can the Witches not help you?”

“No, and neither can our _own_ magic,” Alice replied. “And we have tried everything _either_ world can think of.”

Hermione felt a surge of pity for them. “But you said you knew about magic. About where I might start to look for a boy that I have to find in that other world.”

“Well, if he’s a wizard, and he’s your age, there’s only one place he’s likely to be,” Frank answered.

“And where’s that?”

“Hogwarts, the premier school of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Europe,” said Frank.

“There’s a _school_ … for _witchcraft?_ ” Hermione breathed lowly. “Wow.”

“Only the very best there is,” Alice smiled. “If you want to find a boy wizard, that’s the best place to start your search.”

“Well, I suppose as I _am_ a witch, it makes sense to go to a school to learn about how to be a better one,” Hermione pondered. “How do I get in?”

“We’ll give you the contact details of the Headmaster,” Frank explained. “Make your case to _him._ ”

“Wont he suspect us, as we aren’t from that world?” asked Hermione.

“Just say you are _Muggleborn_ ,” Alice advised. “Muggle is the name given to non-magic people over there. It will explain your lack of knowledge of magic or the magical world, as lots of students come from that background.”

“Muggleborn,” Hermione parroted. “Okay. Will there be a test?”

“The Headmaster will assess you, but you have witch-oil in your soul, so you’ll pass,” Frank answered. “Don’t worry, the school term doesn’t start for several months. We can prepare you thoroughly before you cross over.”

“Okay, that sounds like a plan,” Hermione nodded. “Thank you for helping me. What can I ever do to repay you?”

“There is _one_ thing,” Alice began cautiously. “If you get in to Hogwarts, and you meet a round-faced boy there, try to be friends with him. He is a kind-hearted, but nervous child. A friend or two will do him the world of good.”

“Okay, I can do that,” Hermione promised. “But I have to ask … who is he?”

Frank looked at Hermione and smiled. “His name is Neville … and he’s our son.”

_End of Book 1_


End file.
